


A Tale of the High Seas

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Lieutenant Arthur Pendragon thinks that the Navy is his life or he does until he has a close encounter with a bunch of evil pirates that is set to change his life. Coincidentally, he might find love and discover that the supernatural exists. Meanwhile Elena is determined to save her man from the clutches of the same evil pirates, though she might bumble her way through the rescue</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of the High Seas

**Title:** A Tale of the High Seas  
 **Author:**  
 **Film Prompt:** Pirates of the Caribbean IV: On Stranger Tides  
 **Pairings:** Arthur/Merlin, Gwaine/Elena.  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 42,600  
 **Spoilers:** Up to series 3  
 **Warnings:** Minor character death  
 **Disclaimer:** The characters don’t belong to me; they are the property of the BBC and  
Shine. No profit is being made.  
 **Summary:** First Lieutenant Arthur Pendragon thinks that the Navy is his life or he does until he has a close encounter with a bunch of evil pirates that is set to change his life. Coincidentally, he might find love and discover that the supernatural exists. Meanwhile Elena is determined to save her man from the clutches of the same evil pirates, though she might bumble her way through the rescue.  
 **Notes:** Written for reel_merlin. (ii) This was kindly beta'd by the lovely and brilliantly thorough and Thank you both so much.

 

 **Off St. Jago de la Vega, Jamaica (1718)**

The flag they hoisted represented a death's head: crossbones resting below an ugly white skull stitched on a sable black ensign.

A deckhand crossed himself and murmured, “The Jolly Roger.”

They should have known; the galleon, a two-masted three-decker, had been dogging their wake since dawn, flying neutral colours but never changing tack.

As the galleon manoeuvred, presenting her broadside, the boatswain said, “They mean to sink us.”

Captain Leon Dornington shouted, “All hands on deck!”

But it was already too late.

Arthur's hand went to the hilt of his sabre, all the muscles in his body tensing.

“We'll try retreating downwind,” the Captain said low in his throat so only Arthur could hear.

Arthur slanted him a pole-axed look. “We'll be raked down! They have the weather gage.”

“I know,” hissed Leon. “But there's nothing more we can do. They played the friendly vessel trick to perfection.”

Not wasting any more time, Dornington shouted, “Lower the jib.”

Arthur repeated the order, bellowing it as loudly as he could. All the hands on deck ran to their stations, scurrying to obey orders.

“Let out the mainsail,” the Captain ordered.

The crew let it out till it started flapping. It was then pulled in but it was no use. The galleon's gunports had been lowered and opened; thirty guns were now pointed at the _Avalon_ 's hull. Their only hope was to be able to withstand the oncoming broadside.

Arthur unsheathed his blade.

The enemy's starboard battery suddenly belched forth smoke and 32-pounder shots. The guns emptied themselves at point blank range, damaging the rigging and masts. When the shot crashed through the wood, splinters flew every which way, and a mighty roar from the splitting of fixtures followed upon the heels of such extensive damage.

The screams of maimed men filled the air and the smell of blood wafted over to fill Arthur's nostrils with its cloying stench. The wounded, moaning and sobbing, were carried down below decks, where the ship's surgeon would treat them.

Under the furious onslaught, the foremast shattered and the topsail split. The mizzenmast shivered into splinters, emitting a groan as it fell. Beams and planks were torn apart, the noise thundering and deafening.

“Man the guns!” Arthur shouted, looking everywhere for Leon. “Riddle their stays with holes!”

The men moved the dead bodies away and manned the guns again, desperation and Arthur's shouted commands driving them forward.

But all hell broke loose when the galleon steered alongside the _Avalon_ and the two vessels aligned.

The pirates got their grappling hooks into the _Avalon_ , securing her to their ship and pushing their advantage in the hopes of boarding the frigate.

Pistols flashed. A midship port was blown, Arthur ducked, and the _Avalon_ 's timber hull wailed.

Leaping from their gunwale, the pirates swarmed the _Avalon_ , howling like banshees, swinging their cutlasses.

They were a ferocious, motley crowd; their curses were expressed in a variety of languages, most of which sounded foreign to Arthur's ears. Their garb was of the most ragged and diverse Arthur had ever seen; everything was mismatched and nothing was clean. Their assailants wore loose-fitting trousers, covered their heads with dirty kerchiefs, and used weapons crafted in every corner of the globe.

Arthur saw scimitars, naval cutlasses likely filched from some British officer or other, and rapiers. Some of them used flintlock pistols to shoot at the closest of Arthur's crew members; others employed army bayonets.

Without a pause, they slashed left and right, hacking at men, sacks, and stays.

As the crew of the _Avalon_ tried to repel them, unhooking their grappling hooks and throwing the enemy overboard, more and more pirates leapt onto their deck. The Marines attempted to kill or incapacitate the boarders while keeping them at a distance, but it seemed an impossible feat since the _Avalon_ crew was outnumbered.

A good number of the boarders headed directly for the hold, aiming for loot. Could they have known about the prize the _Avalon_ was carrying? Arthur, however, had no time to ponder that question for he was engaged by two rascals.

One of them swung his cutlass at Arthur while the other lunged at him. Arthur danced back, avoiding the swipe of the cutlass and parrying the lunge.

Again they closed on him, and Arthur kicked one back as he dispatched the first, ramming his blade straight through him. He thought he'd bought enough time to regroup, but his second attacker was quite determined.

He flashed his cutlass in a slicing movement, and Arthur had to duck to avoid being beheaded.

Doggedly, his opponent brought down his weapon, but Arthur rolled, fingers closing around the hilt of his sabre. He couldn't afford to lose his blade.

All this was happening while random shots were being fired at him, but Arthur couldn't think about them. Not when he was rushed by two more people at once. Arthur fought them off, and though he repulsed and killed those two, more were coming.

It was mayhem.

He was busy chopping and hacking, but there wasn't a moment of reprieve. He had been fighting unremittingly for he didn't know how long when he started to feel his strength leaking away.

There had to be something he could do; there had to be. He needed to gain a vantage point.

He battered a gleaming scimitar aside and grabbed a rope, swinging across and onto the quarterdeck. If the officers could rally, the _Avalon_ could still be saved.

He landed, sword at the ready, when someone surprised him and knocked him half off his feet.

Arthur whirled around, blood trickling down the side of his face. In a daze, he tried hard to focus, but his vision was getting blurry, making him see objects as through a mist. Half-blind still, he lunged at the figure, but it nimbly side-stepped, pointing a pistol at him.

When the lips of his adversary curled into a mocking smile, he recognised her. “Morgause Delahaye!” he said. “You were hanged in Port Royal. Everybody knows that.”

“And yet I'm pointing a pistol at you, Lieutenant Pendragon.”

“This is an act of piracy,” Arthur said, taking a careful step forwards. If he could get closer, he could disarm her. “You will swing from the gallows for this.”

“Like I did the last time?”

Arthur moved and she shot him. The last thing he heard before passing out was:

“Are you surrendering your ship, Captain?”

“Not as long as I have a gun or a crew,” Dornington said.

“We can take care of that.”

 

****

 

Arthur's eyes blinked open. The sun was blazing overhead, scorching and unrelenting. With its glare, it was very nearly blinding him, beside burning the skin of his neck and hands. The sky itself was a pure blue, dipping and merging into the equally blue depths of the ocean.

To add insult to injury, there was almost no breeze, and it was so baking hot, it was difficult to breathe, his lungs striving for air.

His lips were cracked and dry and his vision was fuzzy; moreover, his head was pounding like a broadside going off at an enemy vessel.

When Arthur tried to move to assess his injuries, his shoulder gave a twinge of pain. That, though, was a minor worry compared to the fact that he'd been tied to the mast, wrists bound behind him, the knot so tight it cut his blood flow and bit into his flesh.

In an effort to orientate himself, Arthur gazed at his surroundings only to find that he wasn't aboard the _Avalon,_ her familiar shape only a comforting memory.

If the fact that the deck was grimy and the sails too dark and patched up hadn't alerted him to this, the ragamuffins surrounding him and populating the deck would have.

The crew, if such a collection of men could be called a crew, were, in fact, looking at him askance; while a few of the men were downright scowling at him.

A youngster or two seemed to be regarding him as if he were an oddity, casting curious, furtive glances his way. But mostly he read intense dislike in their eyes.

This crew was as bedraggled as it could be. But that wasn't all.

Since sanitation had to be poor on a pirate vessel, most men were missing teeth or limbs, while others bore the scars of battle just as navy officers did. That, per se, wasn't as ominous a sign as the scars branded on some of the crew members' cheeks. Those brands had been put there as a warning; the men who bore them were murderers.

Realising that, Arthur could only wet his lips and swallow against the dryness in his throat. He tried to tug to see if the rope binding him would yield but he stopped when he heard voices. One was steely and feminine — Morgause's — while the other was the voice of the man who had ordered Captain Dornington to yield.

“I swear to you, he'll lead us there if he wants to survive.”

“You trust him that far?”

“No, absolutely not,” Morgause said. “I'm sure he'll try to escape. But he won't in the end.”

The man scoffed. “Because of a curse?”

“Or because he's a gentleman at heart.”

This time a peal of laughter rolled out of the man. “And you believe that?”

“Ordinarily I wouldn't, no,” Morgause said. “But I've met the man, and despite his libertine airs and his colourful past, he seems to be quite... honourable.”

“We snatched him from the execution dock,” the man said. “Hardly gentlemanlike. The other one, though... our prisoner. I think he's high born. I believe you recognised him.”

Morgause stifled a laugh. “Indeed I did. He's Admiral Pendragon's son. I saw him when he was a boy once, in Port Royal. Not a person I'd forget considering the circumstances. We'll be able to ransom him nicely if his father doesn't get too proud to negociate with pirates.”

“If Pendragon refuses to ransom him,” the man said, “his son will walk the plank.”

Arthur yanked more forcefully at the ropes binding him all the while trying to make it look as though he was still in a swoon.

“There might be other uses for him,” Morgause said.

“What do you mean?”

It was Morgause's turn to chuckle. “We need a siren's tears. So the rules binding the ritual say. And we all know how dangerous sirens can be.”

Arthur suspected he was suffering from the side-effects of sunstroke, for nobody could really believe in the existence of such creatures. Captain Dornington had sometimes managed to capture some vicious pirates, and most of them had turned out to be a superstitious lot, believing in Jonahs and that bad luck would follow you everywhere if you stepped on any boat with your left foot first.

Most seamen in general were prone to lend credence to such tales, but sirens were a little too much. Nobody could believe that monsters existed in this day and age. It was simply preposterous.

“Lower your voice,” the pirate addressing Morgause said. “You don't want a mutiny on your head, do you? You know that sailors will rather walk the plank than cheerfully steer for Myrddin Bay.”

“I suggest you allow the crew to open the rum casks,” Morgause said with levity in her tone

“Not even rum will convince them.”

“The cat o' nine tails will surely do the trick, then.”

“I'm not sure it will,” the man said. “They're scared witless.”

Morgause said, “If I were you, I'd sleep with a pistol under my pillow. It's clear you can't control the whims of your men.”

“Morgause.”

“There's no other way,” Morgause said. “The ritual won't work if we have no siren's tears.”

“Are you sure?” the man asked. “You're the one interested in this magic stuff, but how do I know it's not just legends?”

Arthur couldn't have thought of a better question himself. He nearly hissed a silent laugh, which he tried to contain.

“Magic exists,” Morgause said.

Arthur heard footsteps right next to him. He lifted his head; his vision blurred, cleared, then blurred again.

When he eventually focused, Morgause was towering over him, a smug half-smile twisting her lips.

She kicked him and Arthur bit back a groan. “Awake at last,” she said. “I thought it high time.”

Arthur leant his head against the mast and made a show of meeting Morgause's eyes. “What happened to the _Avalon_?” he asked.

“We sank her,” Morgause said. “Cenred, that's the captain of this ship, killed the captain of the _Avalon_ himself.”

Arthur couldn't believe that the _Avalon_ , the ship he'd served in ever since he'd been a young midshipman, could be lost. Sunk. “You're lying,” he said with all the conviction he could muster. “The _Avalon_ is one of the best frigates in the service. Captain Dornington wouldn't...”

The man Arthur decided was Cenred came over then, laughing humourlessly. “Wouldn't have squealed like a pig when he died?”

Arthur fought his bonds, wanting nothing better than to kill the man who'd been mocking his captain, who'd been — was — an excellent officer. Arthur had always looked up to Leon with a kind of admiration that would have been friendship, he was sure, if Captain Dornington hadn’t been older and higher up in the ranks.

“You're a pirate,” Arthur gritted through his teeth. “Not a word of what you say is likely to be true.”

Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to maintain as cool an exterior as possible, but Cenred didn't seem to be convinced by his bravado. He said, “I'm sure the late captain would have appreciated this show of confidence. But you don't believe it yourself. And that's wise. As you said, we're pirates: no code of conduct binds us but the pirate code. We won't hesitate to kill you if you hold no value for us.” He showed Arthur his teeth. “Which is why you'll write your esteemed father a letter, pleading for him to pay your ransom.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Cenred leered down at him. Dressed as he was in dark leather and armed to the teeth, he did look menacing. “We'll begin by slitting your nose and ears. I'm sure your father will be persuaded.”

Arthur was sure Cenred wouldn't recoil at such an act and neither would his crew. The men were actually peering at the goings on in an interested way, even those who were meant to scrub the deck. They'd been less concerned before they'd heard the news of the possible shedding of blood. This lot must view the mutilation of prisoners as a perfectly viable pastime. “Then you don't know my father.”

Cenred hummed, extracted a vicious looking dagger from a jewel encrusted scabbard hanging from his belt and started cleaning his nails with the tip of its blade. “We shall see.”

So saying, he strutted away, wearing a mask of cold unconcern. As he passed, his men recoiled. They all lowered their heads and started scrubbing more vigorously than before.

A young lad slapped his companion, who had been remiss at his job, saying, “Quicker, or he'll feed us to the sharks.”

Arthur had no doubt that Cenred would certainly never spare him out of the goodness of his heart.

He didn't need any confirmation of the man's ruthlessness from his crew, that was certain.

“Are you prepared to die for your honour, Arthur?” Morgause asked. Her voice was less of a sibilant hiss now. She had narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips.

This made her look no less stern and forbidding, but a little more human, perhaps. Her golden hair, highlighted by the glare of the sun, resembled a halo. If not for the layer of kohl rimming her lower eyelids, she would have looked like a steely Madonna.

“I understand that, believe me. But you should set your priorities straight. Whom would your death benefit?”

Arthur locked his jaw and refused to answer.

“Not the Navy certainly. A dead officer can't serve his country.”

Arthur turned his head away, looking over the deck's rail and into the distant horizon.

“I'll leave you to think about it, but that letter to your father will go out whether you sign it or not.” She walked away, hand on her rapier.

 

****

 

The candle lanterns swung with the pitch and roll of the ship, shedding light on the carved bulkheads. Admiral Uther Pendragon rose from his desk to look out at the sea through the large windows of his cabin. They spanned its length and afforded a view of sea and sky.

Land was peeking over the long wash of sea opening up before him. The view would have been agreeable in most circumstances, with the reefs and verdure-clothed hills of San Salvador courting the eye from a distance, but today it wasn't.

Admiral Pendragon pinched the bridge of his nose and crumpled up the missive that had been delivered to him.

A loud knock broke the Admiral's reverie.

“Yes, come in,” Uther said, turning.

Captain Morris stepped into the cabin, knocking into a case, which had been fitted into the rudder head and contained bowls, glasses, and a china tea set. He saluted, stood to attention, and fixed his gaze on the Admiral. “Orders, sir?” he stammered.

Uther picked up the ornate dagger he used as a paperweight and started smacking the palm of his left hand with its blunt blade.

The timepiece that had been placed on the chart table ticked away, signalling the passage of time from the boarding of the _Avalon._

He cast a glance at the miniature suspended over his berth, taking in a deep but measured breath. It was an oil and represented a beautiful woman, golden curls surrounding her face, a small smile hinted at by the creases formed at the corners of her mouth. The likeness was good, he reflected, but it had none of the vitality she had possessed in real life.

Uther let his eyes roam across the cabin. They alighted on the open logbook. The last entry had been a record of the ship's position at noon on the preceding day. Next to it lay the letter from the Lord High Admiral containing his orders.

He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his paperweight and said, “We obey orders. We make for Port Mahon. We'll leave Sir Geoffrey at Lisbon and meet the _Berwick_ and the _Arrogant_ there.”

“But,” Morris said, eyeing the letter Uther had made a ball of. “Sir....”

The Admiral fastened his eyes on his young captain. “Are you disputing my authority, Captain?”

“No, sir,” the young man said hesitantly. “I'd have thought we would give chase to the _Escetia,_ sir.”

“Those are not our orders,” Uther said, low and cold. “We can't chase a pirate ship across the seven seas based on empty promises and emptier threats.”

Morris gulped, his eyes becoming rounder, but he soon composed his features. “I understand, sir.”

“Tell Mr Muirden to set course and topgallants. We're doing our duty by the Navy.”

Morris came to attention. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said. He didn't discuss Uther's decision any further, but pivoted and left the cabin to go relay his admiral's orders.

Uther stepped towards his berth and let himself fall on it, sitting with his elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

He exhaled twice to allow his body to settle and cleared his mind of all thought, letting himself be lulled by the gentle roll of the ship.

She was mastering the swell of the waves; every sail had been blown from the gaskets till there wasn't a stitch of canvas left to adorn the yards.

Whenever she nimbly tacked, the ship's timbers creaked and the rudder ropes rumbled. Ticking sounds strung themselves together while the wind wailed through the rigging in a melody Uther knew well.

It had accompanied him all his life, from boyhood to maturity and into middle age. If he walked on deck, he would hear the sails slapping and the cracking of wood. He would see members of his crew as they climbed the ratlines and perched on the yardarms, reaching out and leaning over the void to furl and unfurl sails. It was the natural life cycle on a ship of the line.

There was another knock on the door and Uther stood quickly, hands hanging down, fingers uncurling.

The ship's surgeon, Gaius, entered, still swaying on his feet after so many years spent at sea.

“Is there a scurvy outbreak?” Uther asked, only half in jest.

“No, sir,” said Gaius, adjusting his spectacles. “Our crew is relatively healthy, but for a couple of minor injuries.”

“I see.”

“I was on deck a short while ago,” Gaius continued, and from his tone Uther could already guess what he'd say. “And I overheard Captain Morris relay your orders.”

“We're making sail for Port Mahon, as expected.”

Gaius raised his eyebrows. “I thought we would give chase to the _Escetia._ ”

“Because they have my son,” said Uther stiffly, pronouncing each word carefully. “I'm expected to betray my country and besmirch my name because I'm his father?”

“No, sir,” said Gaius. He didn't lower his eyebrows. “But those are very important considerations.”

“We're at war with Spain,” said Uther. “Alberoni has had fifty ships of the line built. The Marquis of Lede has invaded Sicily. Not obeying orders in a situation like this, when Britain most needs it, would amount to treason.”

“That would be the letter of the law, sir,” Gaius said, humming softly. He threw a look at the crumpled letter on Uther's desk, wearing the same expectant, sympathetic air as Morris.

They'd all been on deck when it had been delivered, so of course they knew of its contents. The poor bastard who'd been ordered to hand it to Admiral Pendragon was now in chains below deck.

He'd sworn that he'd rather hang than face the wrath of, “Our Captain and his first mate. The way he got the ship,” he'd shuddered. “There was nothing natural about it. Besides, better the noose than Myrddin Bay.”

“Arthur would make the same choice,” Uther said. “He's loyal to the crown and believes that duty comes first. He wouldn't be thanking me for dishonouring the name he too bears.”

“That's perfectly logical,” said Gaius, sighing over loudly. He shook his head as though bemoaning their harsh fate. Then he said, “I'll go set poor Peters' hand. At least that can be helped.”

He turned and exited, wobbling on his way out because a lee-lurch had compromised his equilibrium.

When he was alone, Uther closed his eyes.

 

****

 

They had scarcely fed him in the days he'd been a prisoner. They gave him water when they remembered, and a crust of stale bread so he wouldn't outright starve, but they didn't waste any of their valuable provisions on him.

Sometimes they let him walk up and down the deck, but he was so heavily guarded that flight, short of hurling himself overboard, was impossible. The rest of the time they kept Arthur chained even though all his weapons had been removed from his person.

Even if he'd had them, there was little he could do. He was surrounded by a hostile crew at all times. The precaution seemed rather laughable to Arthur.

Cenred had given his men a speech on the second day of Arthur's captivity. Morgause was a step behind him, muttering words low in her throat. He'd stepped up behind the helm and said, “Anyone who lets the prisoners escape will be punished. Severely.”

Arthur had wondered who the other prisoners might be. They certainly weren't sharing his fate, for Arthur hadn't seen anyone placed in a position as unique as his own.

“And, believe me,” Cenred had continued, “marooning will look like a mercy when I'm done with you.”

Morgause had taken a single step forwards then, her eyes swirling gold. Arthur had shaken his head, thinking the sun had finally driven him crazy, or that its reflection had been playing tricks on him, but when he'd taken his gaze off Morgause to look into the eyes of the crew, he'd noticed that same golden light taking over the darker colour of their pupils. What had that been?

One thing was sure: the unmistakable malignant glares directed at him had multiplied tenfold after Morgause's little mumbling session.

Had Morgause been responsible? If his physical condition hadn't made it impossible for him to dwell on questions like that, Arthur would probably have formulated some kind of theory. However, his shoulder throbbed where the bullet fired by Morgause had grazed his flesh, his limbs were mostly numb by now, and his throat was parched.

To make matters worse, curtains of rain had fallen the next day and then the sun had come back with a vengeance. If it had dried his sodden uniform, it had also burnt his exposed skin some more.

In short, these weren't conditions conducive to clarity of thought. Perhaps he'd been hallucinating all along.

At the moment the only thing he could feel were the hot drops of sweat that were slowly forming and trickling down his body and a mind-numbing sense of thirst. So, however much he tried, he couldn't quite gather his thoughts.

When he'd come back to himself, he'd noticed that Morgause had had the sails unfurled and set to adjust to the improved weather conditions. He had found himself absently approving her choice, thinking her a skilled hand at sailing. He'd chuckled then, loud and for everyone to hear, hitting his head against the mast when he threw his head back. He must have sounded a little unhinged, but even the idea that he was slowly going batty hadn't worried him too much.

That had been his last coherent thought.

He was recalled to the present by the off-key singing of a crew member.

“ _Oh, I steered from sound to sound, as I sailed, as I sailed. Oh, I steered from sound to sound, as I sailed. I steered from sound to sound, and many ships I found. And all of them I burned as I sailed, as I sailed,”_ the man brayed.

Arthur focused, his vision not quite as clear as he would have wished. Night had fallen at some point, and the lack of light sources made identifying the person tottering towards him more difficult than it would have been in broad daylight.

Finally, the man — tall, dark, hair gathered in a ponytail with some locks flying loose — staggered into the flickering pool of light shed by a lantern. He was holding a rum bottle, likely pilfered from the hold, by its neck. The presence of the bottle explained a few things, like the terrible howling fracas the man was producing and the fact that he walked like a landlubber on a badly pitching deck even though the night was clear and the ocean placid.

The man managed a gauche pivot and then lurched forwards, coming to kneel at Arthur's feet. He set his bottle down and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word, Arthur smelled his breath.

“My God, you reek like an alehouse,” Arthur said, turning his head to avoid catching another whiff, forehead creasing. Judging by his breath, the man must have swilled more than one bottle.

“And you a reek like a cottar wife's lum,” the man said, smiling too widely. “Your Lordship.”

Arthur spluttered, mind still too sluggish to formulate a retort. However he was silenced when he found that the man was leaning forwards, reaching his arms out so they were semi-wrapped around Arthur's middle.

Arthur tensed, tilting his chin back as far as it would go. “What are you doing?”

The man suppressed a laugh. “Calm down, lordling,” he said. “I'm not trying to molest you. I'm freeing you.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You're a pirate.”

“Indeed I am,” the man answered. “Gwaine Jones, captain of the missing _Lady Ragnell_ , at your service.”

“The _Ragnell_ ,” Arthur spat indignantly, voice too high to preserve secrecy. “We chased you all the way down to Barbados two years ago.”

Captain Jones leant back. He had only half undone the ropes securing Arthur's wrists when he stopped fumbling with them, evidently in order to brag. He lifted an imaginary hat and said, “The one and the same.”

“If you're a pirate, why are you trying to free me?” asked Arthur dubiously. “That's not what pirates do!”

“You have strange notions,” Captain Jones said. “But then of course, you serve the crown like a dutiful little boy, so you would.”

“If you're to mock me,” Arthur began, stiffening again. “I'd rather not be—”

Jones laughed. “What, freed?” He shook his head from side to side, but still kept busy working Arthur free.

“Yes!” Arthur said, chin jutting out. “What difference would it make to me? This pirate's captive, that pirate's captive....”

Gwaine grunted, mopped at his brow, and then went back to work on Arthur's bonds. “Well, I was organising a cute little mutiny belowdeck. I thought you'd be interested.”

Arthur couldn't say he wasn't. Alone, he was powerless, but if the men mutinied, he would stand a chance of surviving this and getting back to the _Avalon_ , or England, if his ship had indeed been sunk.

What would later become of him was questionable, but taking things one step at a time seemed more than reasonable under the circumstances. “What are you doing this for?” he asked.

“I'm doing this because,” Gwaine said, working the layers of hemp loose, “I'm a prisoner, as much as you are. And I'd like to get my ship back.”

Arthur watched Gwaine sweat and curse. “How did you lose a ship?” he asked. It came out as an outraged shriek Arthur wasn't too proud of.

“It's a long story,” said Gwaine. “It involves a tavern brawl, three casks of rum, and a beautiful witch.”

Arthur brayed a laugh. “You steered your ship into some reef or other, didn't you, Captain?”

“Mock all you want, my lady,” Gwaine said. “But magic exists and you'd better believe it. Especially since we're facing Morgause's men. They can't die. She bespelled them. Collected their blood in a cup and now they can't be killed.”

“That's preposterous,” said Arthur just as the rope gave, allowing him to move. Arthur groaned out loud when he tried to stir, limbs too numb to obey his will. When he attempted getting up, he found he could no more master the use of his legs than a young colt could.

This wasn't promising at all.

He tried once more, seeking to heave himself up by using his upper body strength. Unfortunately, all his muscles ached and protested, his feet were numb as if wadded in cotton, and his thighs trembled. And then pins and needles started wracking him.

“Luckily enough, they didn't think to attach a ball and chain to your leg.” Gwaine said, hustling him forwards towards the hatch. “I wouldn't have known how to filch a cutter. Maybe an axe or machete....”

Arthur thanked God for small mercies, not wanting to picture a drunk Gwaine fiddling with a machete while in close proximity to his own limbs.

Unsteadily, Arthur limped after Gwaine, each step a trial. He careened down the ladder more because of his momentum than because he'd got his legs under him properly.

“You could slow down.” Gwaine smirked. Belying his words, he propelled Arthur stealthily forwards and into one of the bow storage cabins.

The space was filthy and rat infested. Crates and barrels occupied one large section of it while a number of sacks had been heaped in the corner opposite.

The cabin, however cramped, was not devoid of human occupants: six men were huddled inside it, safe from the wind and sea-spray.

The group of men was pretty diverse, ages ranging from a likely fourteen to downright venerable. They were all armed, and all of them had a glint in their eyes that promised trouble.

“These are my friends,” Gwaine said. “They don't like Cenred any more than you do.”

“Or Myrddin Bay,” said the oldest man in the group, causing Arthur to cock his eyebrow sceptically. “I don't want any part in that.”

“I see,” said Arthur circumspectly. They were eight in total and while attempting to take the ship like this was crazy, it was better odds than him against everyone else. “Tell me what you know about the crew.”

“Who gave you the command?” Gwaine asked, but he was smiling so Arthur trusted he wouldn't have to face off with him to lead this ragged band of deckhands. “I suppose we need your help anyway,” he said. “Morgause hasn't turned all the crew into the undead; only the original complement of the _Escetia_ has been changed. The other sailors hate Cenred's men and are going to help us once they see we have the upper hand.”

“If,” said Arthur. “Not once.”

“Yes, well,” said Gwaine. “I've got a lady to rescue, a ship to claim, and a man to get back at, so I really don't have any choice here.”

“Unfortunately we're in the same boat,” said Arthur, eyeing Gwaine warily and expelling a sigh. He wished he could have led this mutiny with the help of someone more trustworthy, but then, he reflected, someone who could boast an unimpeachable character wouldn't be in this scrape and thus in a position to help Arthur get back to England and the service.

“So I was thinking,” said Gwaine airily, “that we should gain the upper deck and once we've roused all of Cenred's captives and those of the crew who're against him—”

“We never elected Cenred,” the youngest boy piped in. “He isn't a proper captain.”

“Once we've got the men on our side—” Gwaine continued.

Arthur interrupted him. “It won't work unless we get to Cenred first. I propose we incapacitate him and rouse the crew after we've got him.” Arthur didn't like the idea of mutinying and attacking a captain but Cenred was an outlaw. His boarding of the _Avalon_ had been an act of war.

“But—” Gwaine began.

Arthur cut him short again. “You eight,” he said, gesturing at the sailors, “you do as Captain Jones says and take control of the deck. We,” he finished, spinning to face Gwaine, “are going to tackle Cenred.”

“What about his mate?” the boy from before asked. “Morgause wants to go to the sirens' place more than our cap'in does.”

Arthur swallowed. “She's a lady.”

“She's a pirate,” Gwaine corrected him.

“Regardless,” Arthur said. “I won't lay hands on a woman.”

“I assure you she'd have no such qualms if your respective positions were reversed.”

Arthur suspected that was the truth. “We'll tie her down.”

Gwaine opened his mouth but shook his head. “As you wish, you half-perished fool.” Despite his language, Gwaine walked across the cabin and lifted the lid of a barrel. He got a pistol and a cutlass out of it and slid the lid back in place. Turning, he marched up to Arthur and, mock bowing, presented the weapons to him. “You'll need these.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, cocking the pistol and grabbing the sword. “Now we make for Cenred's cabin.”

“I'll lead the way,” said Gwaine. “I've already been there. Not willingly, of course.”

Arthur nodded grimly. “Pray do,” he said.

Walking in single file so as not to make too much noise, they sneaked back towards the ladder and climbed up the scuttle. Given the comings and goings that characterised the life of a ship at any moment, they went undetected, even though Arthur had to shed his navy jacket to pass unnoticed.

When they made it back on deck, Arthur heard the breeze rustle trough the lengths of canvas and realised the ship was wearing. He guessed they were indeed heading for Myrddin Bay.

They crept forward, trying to escape the gaze of the man at the wheel. Every time the bow dipped, water rushed on the deck, making him all wet, so he had other things to think about; therefore he didn't notice Arthur and Gwaine making for the Captain's cabin or the other six men slinking towards the forecastle.

When he and Gwaine found themselves before an oak door, Gwaine said, “This is it.”

Arthur bobbed his head.

“Hook handed son of a Dutchman, the door's locked,” said Gwaine, trying to force it open without making too much noise.

“There goes our element of surprise,” said Arthur, kicking the door open. Luckily for them, Cenred was sprawled on his berth, sleeping soundly, cobwebbed bottles of rum and whisky rolling on the floor.

Gwaine lifted his sword and took a step towards the slumbering man.

“I don't like this,” said Arthur. “It's not honourable.”

Cenred snored loudly and rolled onto his side, completely unaware of any danger.

“I know,” said Gwaine, casting aside all levity for a moment. “But it's him or us. It's him or the poor sods he's turning into undead monsters.”

Arthur's throat gave a ripple; Gwaine took a step towards Cenred's recumbent figure.

And then they were both flung towards the wall; Morgause, hair flowing and eyes blazing gold, had turned up at the worst possible moment.

They lost their grip on their weapons on impact.

Morgause chanted out words in an odd language. A wind materialised from out of nowhere and Arthur lost consciousness.

 

****

 _Wednesday, August 3, winds light and variable 0-10, SW by S, Course S45 w, 170 degrees. Speed 1.5-2 Knots. Distance 50 miles. Latitude 18° 15' 0" N/ Longitude 63° 10' 0" W. Off Anguilla. Sunny. Working Jib. Furl Spritsail. Swells Moderate, 4-8’ Westerly. Barometer 29.7. Firing the guns for exercise._

 _Thursday, August 4, strong wind from abeam. SW by S, Course S43 w, 120 degrees. Speed 1.1 knots. Distance 20 miles. Latitude 17°25′N/Longitude: 66°05′ W. Noon Sight 33.54N, 123.40W. Course 210 degrees. Speed 4 Knots. Winds 20 Knots WNW Swells 8-12’ NW. Barometer 29.7 Occasional squalls but clear to windward. Merchantman approached within 0.8 miles bearing 123 degrees. Lying ahull – Waiting out storm by dousing all sails._

 _Friday, August 5, strong winds Latitude 17°02 N/ Longitude: 67°05′ W. Noon Sight. 33.54N, 123.40W Course 210 degrees – Speed 3.5 Knots. Winds 12-15 NW. m. Swells 5-7 NW. Barometer 30.450. 9:15 am: after series of brief but heavy rain squalls finally doubled Antigua. We are now sailing at a rate of 15 Knots from the NW. Hard gales at 2 pm._

 _5 pm Keble and Williams got in the gun store & got drunk. Received 5 lashes each. 6:45 pm: sea breeze set in strong; reefed topsails, topgallants and spanker._

Uther put down his quill and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His eyesight was getting weaker as the years went by; compiling the logbook, a duty and a personal tradition, had become a harder task as of late, and he wished he didn't have to be daily reminded of the ways his body was beginning to fail him.

He had enrolled in the Navy to honour his name and he'd stayed to bequeath Arthur a legacy to be proud of.

Today it seemed as if all his actions had become devoid of meaning.

He cracked his knuckles and closed the logbook. He snuffed a taper, undid the golden buttons of his uniform, and slipped off his jacket.

He sat himself on his berth and bent to take off his boots. He pushed them in a corner so they wouldn't be in the way in case he had to rise quickly to respond to a call to action.

He heaved himself to his feet again and crossed the length of the cabin. He knelt slowly, minding his stiff knee, and unfasted the ring bolts securing his personal sea chest. It gave off a loud creaking sound and a cloud of dust shimmered up.

Uther picked up a bunch of letters, a leather-bound book, and a small framed miniature and closed the chest.

Ignoring the noise of the men tramping down the hatch ladders, he retreated back to his berth and sat on it with his back to the wall. He set the items he'd gathered on the coverlet and took up the frame.

Carefully, he wiped at its glass with the sleeve of his shirt, running his thumb over the sitter's face. “Ygraine,” he murmured, voice so low it was almost a whisper. He exhaled.

He put the frame back down, facing downwards and opened the first page of the book. He read the dedication:

 _To my dear friend, Lord Uther, that by reading this he might while away the hours he's to spend on board ship, the ocean as his playmate. Consider this but a reminder of the sweet days of bliss spent at my father's,_

 _Yours, Lady Ygraine du Bois_

Uther traced the handwriting with his eyes, following every flourish, curl, or hesitation in the penmanship. An ink blot like a dark tear followed the last letter of Ygraine's name. He'd often wondered whether there had been something prophetic about its presence there, a warning of things to come, but as always he chided himself for entertaining such foolish notions. He shut the book and set to reading Ygraine's first letter, wanting to bask in its cheerful tones.

 _Life at Holdingham goes on as usual even if our proud officers have been whisked off to defend the motherland. Cook was garrulous all day, loving the topic, while father complained about the Whigs' pretensions while ignoring the state of the Navy. He thinks of the Whigs in the most abject terms, you should see._

Uther's eyes filled with tears but drifted close despite the pain crushing his ribcage.

His breathing evened out and pinpricks of light danced across his lids. He attempted to cling to his last train of thought but all he could see in his mind's eye was Ygraine and her stunning features. Her face hadn't changed; she appeared like she had when he'd last seen her.

Her mouth was curling into a smile and her eyes were soft. She was sitting on a bench, wearing her favourite blue gown, the one adorned with turquoise ribbons, the Holdingham property park behind her.

Uther could spy the old sixteenth-century east wing tower looming behind her in the background, while up close orange and russet leaves were strewn at her feet. She was playing with the locket hanging around her neck.

She'd looked happy but a moment before, but her face clouded over with sadness. “Why did you leave me to go to sea?” she asked.

Uther wanted to speak up, knowing that something was terribly amiss, but he couldn't remember what it was.

Uther blinked and found Ygraine by his side. They were in a cemetery, an old one. Most of the gravestones had been broken and toppled, vines and brambles everywhere.

He didn't recognise this spot but could see a familiar steeple in the distance, doves roosting atop it. Yew hedges and small cottage gardens could be seen past the cemetery wall in the same way that the winding, sun-dappled path could be glimpsed if you squinted hard enough.

Ygraine pointed Uther's attention towards a grave, its headstone overrun by weeds and widlflowers.

Uther stooped and displaced the cascade of lush greenery so as to be able to read the name engraved on the marble.

 _Lady Ygraine Pendragon_ , it said, _beloved wife and mother._

Uther recoiled, scrambling back.

Ygraine took his hand and Uther whipped around. She was crying bloody tears.

“No,” he said. “You're here.”

Ygraine's nails dug into his palm. “Don't let water be his grave.”

Uther turned and this time the lettering on the headstone had changed.

It now said, _Arthur Pendragon, loyal officer, dutiful son._

A scream ripped out of Uther. “No!”

The world turned grey, thunder cracked, and Ygraine retreated, enveloped in a cloud of dust and raked up leaves dancing in a small tornado-like vortex.

Uther shouted again, his cries filling the heavens.

And he sat up in bed, sweat clinging to him like a mourning shroud.

When his breathing settled, he rang the bell and when the first lieutenant appeared, Uther ordered, “Summon Morris. I have new orders for him.”

 

****

The windows were barred and made of solid iron. Yanking yielded nothing. Elena had tried all night long and hadn't made much headway. If she hadn't managed to dislodge them so far, she doubted she would pry them off today.

Summoning all her strength, she pulled the metal towards her one last time, but nothing happened.

Breathing hard, she mopped at her brow with her sleeves and let her hands fall down by her sides.

She retreated to a corner of the room and looked around for the umpteenth time. A chair had been left in the middle of the room to provide some measure of comfort, as had a straw mattress. The window was narrow but she could slip through it if she made herself as small as possible.

Unfortunately, there was no removing the bars.

There was no other furniture but a candle in its pewter candlestick; it had been left on the floor and was casting odd shadows on the wall.

Of course, she could kick the door open, it being just wooden. But the two gigantic men guarding the door from outside were no simple stumbling block. She wasn't so stupid as to think that.

There was a rattle of keys and the door opened.

Morgana strode in, wearing her travelling garb, a skirted jacket covering a fitted bodice and a dark petticoat. Her hair was cascading freely, only a golden clip holding a few wayward locks of hair in place. She might have looked like a tavern keeper come to serve a guest but for the sword at her hip and the fierce air about her that belied that particular first impression.

“Here,” she said, voice clear. “I'm leaving, so this is the last meal I'm going to bring you for a while. I don't think my friends here will be likely to remember that you need to be fed.” She cocked her head to indicate the two massive guards. As if to prove her words correct, they both stared ahead sightlessly.

Elena tipped her chipped up defiantly. “I stabbed that big muscular guy over there. He's hale. What have you done to him?”

Morgana smiled although the apparent mirth didn't reach her eyes. “I'm sure you would like to know but I prefer to keep my secrets close to my chest.” She set the tray on the lone chair.

Elena could see that the plate perched upon it contained a chicken leg rolled up in spices, a crust of bread, and a slice of pale cheese.

Elena folded her arms across her chest so as not to punch Morgana in the nose. It wouldn't help her now. “As you did when you were pretending to be my friend?” She tapped her foot “But I'll make you pay for that. As soon as those two hoodooed giants are not around, I'll smash your face.”

"You're in no position to be threatening me," Morgana said. “Besides I wouldn't be so cross about this.” She nodded at the room. “Your dear Gwaine will lead my sister to the Fountain. And then you'll be free to walk away. Pity that he burned the only map there was or you'd be free by now.”

Feeling that her best defence was attack, Elena shot back, “Bullshit. You would have killed him if you didn't need him to lead you to the Fountain.”

Morgana smirked. “Woman of little faith. We rescued him from the gallows.”

Elena put her hands on her hips. “I don't think so. I still think you'll kill him when you're done.” She poked her lower lip out. ”I know about the rite. I read that odd hocus pocus scroll that came with the map.”

Morgana flashed her a flinty look so Elena egged her on, “You need two silver cups. You need to pour water in one while you need to place a siren's tear in the other. Then, if you want to live forever, you have to drink from the cup with the siren's tear, while someone else drinks from the cup only containing water. And then you steal all the years they have lived and on top of that all the years they could have lived if they hadn't taken part in the ritual.”

“And you think we want to steal Gwaine's life from him?”

“I'm sure he'll be a nice bonus.”

“We already have sacrifice material,” said Morgana. She clucked her tongue. “Well, this has been interesting. But I've got to go.”

“Wait,” cried Elena, but Morgana had already left the room and closed the door behind her, taking her two zombified guards with her.

Elena's shoulders slumped in misery and her stomach grumbled noisily. She eyed the chicken and her stomach gurgled once more. She pressed her hands against her belly and supposed that she had to be hungry.

She'd forgotten about hunger and thirst while worrying about her captivity. Elena had eaten when they'd fed her, but that hadn't been enough, evidently. She did feel a little dizzy if she thought about it now.

Even though she wasn't looking forward to giving them the satisfaction of eating what they gave her, Elena padded towards the chair on which the tray had been placed. She squatted down and sniffed the chicken.

Beneath the aroma of cocunut and paprika, which enhanced her hunger, she detected an odd smell.

That was very strange; it seemed sweet and a little cloying. She sniffed again, nose wrinkling up and ending up smeared in sauce. She distractely wiped at it, her attention engrossed by the peculiar smell.

That definitely wasn't any spice she knew of. She disjointed a chicken wing and gave it a tentative lick. The spices covered it very well but the underlying taste was very odd.

It was familiar in a way; she was sure she had tasted something like this a very long time ago. It had been coupled with honey back then. She could clearly recollect tasting a similar flavour when she'd been ill as a child, having suffered from horrible sore thorats from the cradle till adolescence.

Grunhilda, her governess, had given her sleeping draughts so she wouldn't complain or make a fuss. Naturally, when her dad had found out, Grunhilda had been sent packing, but the memory of that taste had stayed with Elena thorough the intervening years.

A sleeping draught, then.

She breathed out loud. She couldn't eat this. God knew why they wanted her unconscious.

She drew up her knees and buried her head in the cradle of her arms. She'd been more than a little hungry, but she couldn't give in and let them have their way with her. And now Morgana was gone and Elena wouldn't be able to guilt her into giving her something untainted. Not that she would. Apart from Morgana there was no one else likely to help her to some better food either.

The hoodooed duo was unresponisive to any pleading. They seemed to live to serve. They did nothing that wasn't ordered, though they still were human enough, still had bodily functions and drank and slept like human beings.

She'd seen the taller one of them eating a chunk of bread Morgana had passed him. So they had to be soulless, invulnerable human beings.

Her head whipped up. Of course. They were still somewhat human!

She got to her feet, trying not to trip up. She hesitated, smoothing her skirts to gain some composure, then knocked on the door, pummelling hard till her fist smarted. “Hey, you two, mountain men,” she said. “You haven't been given much to eat, have you?”

There was no answer but the shuffling of feet outside. She persevered. “I have some nice chicken. You might like it. It's rolled up in spices and it's fragrant and crispy. I'm afraid I might eat it all by myself If I'm left all alone with it. And I shouldn't. Not really.” She made herself sound chirpy. “Not when you two have been deprived so long. It doesn't seem fair.”

She backed away from the door, picked up the dish and clinked the spoon against it. “Mmmm,” she said, fake chewing.

As soon as that sound was emitted, the door opened and the two big men entered. Their stares weren't quite so vacant and determined as before.

“It's very good,” she said, instinctively retreating, but offering up the plate. “Being a little undead must be terrible.” She hoped they wouldn't get offended. “Living on and on without being able to enjoy life's simple pleasures.”

Without further ado, the first guard snatched the plate from her.

Elena watched out of rounded eyes as he bit into the leg, detaching a large chunk of it in one go. He chewed with his mouth open, but there was some kind of very basic, very animalistic drive to his actions that made one thing clear: this man had fogotten everything but the simplest urges. Although they didn't soften, his features distended a little as a sign of his appreciaction.

Apparently convinced by his mate's display, the other guard stole some bread and part of the wing from his companion's plate, eating and swallowing the whole mouthful, unmindful of the bones.

Elena heard them crunching and winced internally.

At one point the second man tried to get some more but the first guard seemed very determined to prevent him. The second guard shoved the first; the first shoved back and then the plate crashed and someone threw a punch.

Enraged at the loss of the food, the first guard charged the second, ramming his head into his chest.

The second guard went sprawling, emitting a loud snore as he hit the ground.

The first gurad's brow knitted in confusion at this outcome. He cast a glance at the shattered plate, at the food remains, at Elena in the corner and at his recumbent companion. It looked as though he was putting two and two together.

Which wasn't good news.

Elena cringed and pressed herself against the corner wall, her sweaty palms searching the panelling fruitlessly for a way out. “Ooops,” she said, trying to smile and botching it completely.

The guard growled, spun on his feet, took a step towards her while raising a fist, and then dropped down in a stupor, nose buried in the dusty wooden boards.

Elena didn't need to be told; she stepped over him and rushed towards the door.

 

****

 

When Arthur came to, his head hurt. Wood was incredibly hard to be flung against.

Gwaine seemed to share his opinion, for he grunted somewhere to Arthur's left.

Arthur batted his lids in order to focus, and what he found wasn't too surprising given the way he'd been tossed across the cabin as though he weighed nothing.

Morgause had a hand extended before her, palm flat, her eyes the colour of bronze coins, unchanging, inhuman.

He attempted to get to his feet, but it was as if someone was pushing him down, pressing down on his shoulder to drive him back.

Arthur tried to move away, fight her magic off, and suddenly it was as though the wall he'd been facing was lifted. He was standing yet again.

He was allowed to stay on his feet but for a few seconds. Before he could regroup, he was hurled across the room by the same force that had flung him against the first wall, where he was flattened.

His skull rattled and there was a dull ringing in his ears.

The noise he'd made on impact must have been enough to wake Cenred from his alcohol-induced slumber. “Eh, what?” he said, knuckling his eyes. “What is this?”

“I think you'll find these two meant to kill you,” Morgause said.

Cenred reeled to his feet, nearly stumbling into one of the rolling bottles littering the floor of his cabin. “We can't have that,” he said.

Morgause kept her hand stretched out. “I was thinking quite the same thing.”

“You blackguards,” said Gwaine. “You took my girl, you turned half your crew into undead people with the emotional and mental range of barnacles, while you yourself are after the true brand of enjoyable immortality. You don't deserve to draw breath, you bilge-sucking monsters.”

Arthur shared the sentiment though he didn't think the expression of it helpful given the circumstances.

Morgause showed her anger by cutting off their air supply. All of a sudden it was as though a pair of invisible hands were clamped around Arthur's throat, choking him.

Arthur's own hands flew to his neck, for he was instinctively trying to free himself from the hold, but his attempt was noticed. The same invisible force driving the breath from his lungs pinned his hands to the wall.

It was as though manacles had been shackled around his wrists. Though of course there were none.

Arthur's eyes had to be bulging out; he struggled for the next breath and was soon wheezing, unable to move an inch one way or the other. He tried to drag some more oxygen into his lungs, but the hands were squeezing tight, nearly crushing his windpipe.

More of this and he was going to die. Black began creeping into his vision, which blurred to the point the edges were fuzzy and he thought he saw two Morgauses.

Because his air was being cut off in that impossibly steely grip, his strength was also being drained out of him.

Gwaine just gurgled something, probably curses.

Then Mogause made a fist of her hand, fingers curling inwards. Arthur could feel the air rush back to his starved lungs and he took in big lungfuls of it. The downside was that he was still pinned to the wall.

“Kill them,” Cenred was raging. “You were so close to doing it!”

“Patience, Cenred,” Morgause said. “We can't kill Captain Jones because he knows where the Fountain is and where to find the chalices.”

Cenred scowled blackly. “Kill the other one, then. I was looking forward to the gold that would come with his ransom, but he's crossed the line by daring to attempt to kill me.”

Morgause clicked her tongue in disapproval. “I told you; I have better uses for Pendragon.”

“You do talk a lot and act as though somebody had made you captain,” said Cenred peevishly. The alcohol he'd imbibed still had to be in his system because he didn't generally sound like that as far as Arthur was aware.

“We need to send them mermaid hunting.” Morgause looked proud and pleased.

Arthur made a little noise in his throat. He would have scoffed if his throat didn't feel as though it was scraped raw.

“I won't lend myself to that, lady,” said Gwaine, conveying his loathing for the expedition.

Morgause made her point by magically cutting off their air supply again.

“Okay,” rasped Gwaine. “You're in command.”

 

****

 

Morgana's horse thundered down the quay, the sound echoing and filling the night time calm. Gravel and dirt were hurled in the wake of the pounding horse's hooves.

Morgana lifted herself from her crouch on the saddle and saw the ship in the dock. She was anchored alongside many vessels like her and flew neutral colours.

She was a hulking mass in the darkness of the harbour, a circular basin protected on all sides by bulwarks and a battery arrayed on the hill rising behind the port.

The unrelieved black was interrupted only by the beacon light coming from the lighthouse perched high on the promontory.

The dilapidated port buildings and dwellings were concentrated to the east, but not a mouse stirred within them, not a light was seen shining through the windows. This was an area of ill-repute, populated by the riff-raff of the Caribbean.

Morgana spurred her horse forward, glad she'd made it and that everything was falling to plan.

When she came in sight of the vessel, she slid off the saddle while still holding onto the bridle. She lowered her riding hood.

A lantern hanging from the end of a pole was shedding some manner of dim light on the pier; the scant illumination made her visible to the crew of the ship docked in front of her. As the tides lapped on the solid mass of the pier, a man, whom she recognised as the Captain of the _Enmyria_ , leant over the railing.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it,” he said.

“Lower the gang plank,” she ordered, cutting him off.

Alvarr barked an order and the sailors lowered the plank into position and locked it. She handed her horse's bridle to one of the men and said, “Stable Diablo for me.”

The man hesitated, looking up at his captain, who was still watching the proceedings.

Eyes flaming unnaturally, Morgana said, “Now.”

The sailor took the bridle and coaxed the horse away. Morgana raked her skirt up and boarded the _Enmyria._

Alvarr swaggered up to her. “Welcome on board.” He laid his hand out, palm open.

Morgana's eyes flashed. Turning Alvarr into a toad was starting to look like an inviting prospect. Unfortunately she had no ship of her own and would be no good at piloting one. She riffled into the pockets of her cloak and took out a fat leather pouch. “Thirty silver pieces,” she said, dropping the pouch into Alvarr's waiting hands.

Alvarr tutted. “Fifty.”

“We agreed you would take me to Isla Sirena and that the price would be thirty pieces.”

Alvarr put his hands on his hips. “The price has gone up.”

“Since when?”

“Since red-coats started patrolling the harbour.”

“That should be no concern of yours and it is certainly none of mine.”

“It is, though,” Alvarr said, contradicting her. “There's a price on your dear sister's head. A big fat reward for whoever can supply information on her whereabouts or hand her to the Chief Justice's men. There has been since she killed that rival of yours. Now everyone who's had dealings with her is a suspect and can be arrested pending interrogation.”

“So?”

“So the stakes are higher.”

Morgana's lips became a thin line. She reached into her pocket and drew from it another pouch, this one made of velvet, a ruby-red ribbon tying it up. She dropped it into Alvarr's waiting hand.

Alvarr weighed it, bouncing it in his palm. “This is more like it.”

Morgana snorted.

Alvarr puffed out his chest. “Your cabin awaits you, my lady.”

Morgana gathered her cloak around her and made for the hatch.

“You'll find a letter from your sister waiting for you on the desk.”

Morgana lifted an eyebrow, but chose not to say a word. Better not to acquaint Alvarr with all their plans.

She descended the ladder and made for her temporary cabin. It was dingy and narrow but she could make do with it for as long as it took her to get to Isla Sirena. After that, she'd have the _Escetia_ at her disposal.

As promised, she found a folded missive on the desk.

Before shedding her cloak and making herself comfortable, she checked that the wax seal hadn't been tampered with. The seal bore the symbol Morgause used as her device and appeared unbroken.

To be sure, however, she passed a hand over the letter and closed her eyes, incanting, making use of the magic language her new-found elder sister had taught her.

The magic, ready to do her bidding, flew to her fingertips. It made the letter shine, quiver in place and flutter like a leaf in a breeze. But the writing paper shone blue and not with the deep green of betrayal.

Satisfied that nobody had read her sister's message, Morgana hung her cloak on a peg, used the water in the pewter basin to refresh herself, and picking up the letter, sat on her cot.

 

 _Most beloved sister,_

 _Everything is well with me as I hope it is with you._

 _Captain King is as much of a fool as we expected him to be and now trusts me completely._

 _He was very grateful when I turned his officers into ever-so-biddable zombies ready to jump at his smallest whim._

 _He changed his tune quite fast on the heels of that event. He went quite quickly from mistrustful to eager to explore the possibilities my magic opened up to him._

 _You should have seen it. I'm sure the show would have pleased you greatly._

 _Some men are bought by gold and some by the lure of power. While Cenred King loves gold, he loves the idea of being the most dreaded pirate in the Caribbean more. Which is why he was ready to buy my words and promote me quickly to the rank of first mate. At least he did once I'd painted the joys of true immortality for him._

 _His pride must be coaxed but it's a small price to pay for the _Escetia_ and the men in my thrall._

I congratulate you upon capturing Elena and sending me news of your success so speedily. Thanks to your alacrity, I was able to lay my hands on Captain Jones and use her for leverage.

So bear with Alvarr, dear sister, for we're about to achieve our end. I couldn't bear to be parted with you sooner than I ought and that curse worries me.

I have studied its wording and I fear that if effective, a year for every day Tiamat was our captive will be taken away from you.

That must not be. I've but recently found you again and I won't give up twenty whole years on top of the twenty that saw us divided. We should have grown up side by side, but that never was. This doesn't mean that we can't shape our destiny.

Magic has blessed us and runs strong in our veins. It will be the tool we use to choose our own future.

So do not fret, for I'm doing my best to get the location of the Fountain out of Jones and foil the curse.

Keep strong, sister, and have faith in magic.

Counting the days until we are re-united,

Yours, Morgause.

 

Morgana sighed. She was about to begin perusing the letter again, the only tenuous link she had with her sister for now, when Alvarr made himself at home in her cabin.

“You could at least have pretended to knock,” she said, hiding the precious and compromising letter under the blanket. She knew he was aware of its existence but she didn't want him to read its contents. Getting acquainted with them would be easy if the letter was on display.

“I could have, yes,” said Alvarr. “But this is still my ship.”

“Consider it mine for the length of this voyage,” Morgana spat drily, acting as Morgause would have. “We've paid you enough for that.”

“Touché,” Alvarr said, not looking or sounding rueful at all.

“Was there a reason for your barging in unannounced?”

Alvarr leant against the bulkhead. “There's something warm waiting for you in the galley.”

“Very well,” she said, not rising. “I'll join you in a moment.”

Alvarr's eyebrows wrinkled together. He chose to stay put, regaling Morgana with a not very subtle curious look. “As you wish,” he then said, spinning on his toes and exiting.

 

****

The sun and stars were shining over the ocean's rippling surface; a blanket of thick clouds had moved southwards hours ago, and the weather had settled into a kind of placidity that nevertheless seemed ominous to Arthur.

There was something odd about it, for it had nothing in common with the dry spells or even the doldrum periods every sailor was accustomed to.

Tonight everything was stillness but for the water lapping at the dinghy and the rhythmic heaving of the sailors working the oars, their muscled arms propelling the boat forwards.

As the few select members of the crew of the _Escetia_ rowed, the water splashed and gurgled. And all the while the _Escetia_ receded from view till it seemed a toy ship and they — he, Captain Jones, and a few reluctant seamen from the main vessel — stopped rowing and began waiting for God alone knew what.

Arthur elbowed Gwaine. “You don't really believe mermaids exist, do you?”

Gwaine cupped his hands over his knees and looked to starboard. “I don't know about you, Captain, but I've seen plenty of inexplicable things in my career.”

“I'm sure,” said Arthur. “I'm also sure you were plenty drunk when you did.”

“I never said I saw a mermaid, but I've seen the _Flying Dutchman_.”

Arthur scoffed.

Wearing a grin, Gwaine said, “Since I've seen one thing, I'm making allowances for the possible existence of the other.”

One of the oarsmen chimed in, “That's a thing hardly to be believed, but it is true."

“Aye,” another said. “They exist. A shipmate of mine — he served under Captain Morgan — saw one.”

“What did she look like?” a third oarsman asked.

“Oh,” the second sailor said, “he said she was beautiful. The most beautiful thing you've clapped eyes on, Davis. All long hair and round, uncovered breasts. Like apples they were.”

Arthur snorted through his nostrils.

“She was,” the sailor insisted. “Loveliness such as you've never seen before. Womanly perfection.”

“I thought mermaids were evil,” said Davis, sounding perplexed.

“Aye, aye, they are,” said the sailor. “They're all pretty-like, a dream of beauty, a promise of carnal pleasures. And you want them. They make you want them. They sing, you see. And it's not a common song.”

“Yeah, like that ditty about a drunken sailor.” The first oarsman backslapped Davis but despite that Davis started singing. _"What can you do with a drunken sailor, what can you do with a drunken sailor? What can you do with a drunken sailor? Early in the morn'in...."_

Arthur laughed even though he wasn't quite in the mood for it.

The old sailor continued and his tone of voice changed. It was very different from the lilt he'd displayed thus far; it seemed to be fit for fireside tales recounted on a cold and stormy night. “Their song will tug at your heart, and you will find yourself begging to hear more, have more of them. And they will sing, oh yes, they will, till desire drives you mad. It'll burn down your veins and you'll want to touch them, their beauty, their bodies, their song.”

Davis grinned so widely all his teeth showed. “That doesn't seem too bad,” he said, scanning the horizon as if for any trace of these notorious beauties.

“It doesn't, does it?” the aged, wrinkled sailor asked. “It seems perfect. The lures of a naked woman who sings like a creature from up above.” He spat. “It's not like that. They're dangerous creatures. For one, they're not women at all. They belong to the race of Faerie, and though their upper bodies look human enough, they have a fish tail.”

“I can make do with a fish tail if they have pretty mouths,” one of the oarsmen, one who'd stayed silent so far, said. “If you know what I mean.”

But the old sailor just shook his head. “Nay, it's not that easy either. They're not just dangerous because they look like a crossbreed. No, they're sea monsters like the Leviathan. They look gentle at first, but all they'll do is drag you down to your death. Because when you're well and truly charmed, that's what they do. And they're pitiless.”

“Well, how does your friend know?” Davis asked. “If he met one, he should have drowned by rights of your account.”

The old sailor said, “He wasn't close enough to be caught in their spell.”

“These are folktales,” said Arthur, who really didn't want to lend an ear to all this rubbish.

Gwaine waggled his eyebrows and said, “There's another way to survive a siren encounter.”

“Oh, come on, tell,” said Davis.

Gwaine heaved a lusty sigh. “If a siren kisses you, you won't drown, not even if she drags you down.”

“I heard it different,” the old sailor insisted, voice a croak. “I heard that they snatch you off the deck of a ship, or out of your boat when you've gone fishing. Since they're so strong, they can pull you down to the bottom. And then they eat you piece by piece as you might eat a young fat lamb."

Gwaine flashed them all a smile and tugged on his earlobe. “I prefer my version. It's far more sensual.”

Davis nodded his agreement but the old sailor said, “You have it wrong.”

“Well, it's a moot point,” said Arthur, pointing at the becalmed seas. “Because we won't see any.”

As soon as Arthur had said that, a breeze rose from the west, making the water ripple and, strangely enough, bubble. Spray and white foam formed in the wake of the bubbles. It wasn't a phenomenon Arthur had ever encountered before, that was sure.

Arthur told himself that it was nothing, just the weather turning, but an odd sensation raised the flesh on his arms and the small hairs at the nape of his neck.

Davis' teeth started chattering at the same time the dinghy began rocking from side to side. The waves took to hitting the boat on her port side with an unprecedented vigour.

 _We're not capsizing,_ Arthur told himself, doing his best to catch himself and grabbing hold of the side.

He watched the waves rising against the tiny hull and sought an explanation for the sudden weather turn. The water had got choppy even though no clouds had appeared in the sky, and the breeze that had suddenly begun to blow wasn't enough to cause this uproar.

Two of the sailors were thrown this way and that while Gwaine's shoulders went rigid as he clung to the boat.

“There,” Davis shouted, pointing frantically. “There's something under the surface. I saw it.”

“Cenred will be happy, I guess,” said Gwaine, looking none too chipper himself. He was pasty grey and it was not because of the lighting.

“It's just a shoal of fish; a shark at worst,” Arthur pointed out, trying to be the voice of reason. A shark wasn't a pleasant idea, not when they were all huddled in a boat this small, but the idea of one haunting the warm waters around Isla Sirena wasn't as preposterous as the alternative.

“No, I saw a tail not a fin, I swear.”

“We're all doomed!” Yelling this, the old man sprang to his feet, teetered, and would have fallen overboard had not Gwaine caught him and pulled him down.

“Stay put, man,” said Gwaine. “Stay down.”

Then Arthur saw it too, the flash of a tail and something gleaming in the moonlight. He leaned over and glimpsed the thing torpedoing in the water and under the dinghy's keel. He felt the thud of the displaced waves as they rolled up and hit the ship's bottom, causing the little boat to wobble. He also smelt seaweed, the pungent and penetrating reek of it filling his senses.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught another flash of the thing streaking through the water, the shimmer of scales reflected in the ethereal moonlight. He started looking all around to see if he could make sense of what his eyes were telling him.

 _Tell me it was a tunny,_ he thought. Then the creature he had spotted surfaced and surfed on its belly by the bow of the ship, drawing out of reach of the surf.

She was beautiful, Arthur could see that.

Her skin looked like porcelain and her features were lovely. Her mouth was full and bow shaped; her eyes were round and made her appear ethereal and innocent. Her hair was wet, but its colour was golden brown. It was worn loose, falling in waves over her torso, barely covering her breasts. They were upright, large enough to fill the palm of a hand, and upturned, their milky white roundness a soft curve created to beguile the senses.

She heaved herself up the side of the boat, her lower body staying in the water. “Hello,” she said, voice soft and alluring.

Arthur blinked and gulped, but it was Davis who rushed towards her.

“I'm Sophia,” she said. “I heard you talk. I'm so alone in the depths and was wondering if you would keep me company.”

Davis leant over, staring right into her eyes. “Yes, yes, of course I would.”

She nudged closer to him so their foreheads touched. “That's so perfect,” she said, bosom heaving.

Davis reached a hand out, pinching her nipple. He opened his mouth, both drawing in a breath and trying to kiss her.

Sophia lowered herself down. “I can sing for you,” she said. “I can sing a song of beauty for you and then you can be my love.”

“Davis, step back,” said Gwaine and Arthur had to agree: this felt wrong.

“You can you sing?” said Davis, trying again to get closer to the mermaid.

“Yes, of course I can. There's lots of things I can do.”

He palmed her shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”

“Why, thank you.” She batted water-laden eyelashes.

“Can you sing for me?”

“Aye.” She licked her lips, surged up, water splashing as her tail thumped the waves. It looked as though she was going for a kiss and Arthur held his breath. She ducked, though, and Davis nearly went overboard in an attempt to follow through, scrabbling for purchase at the very last moment.

“But only if you say you're my sailor boy.”

“Yes!” Davis promised. “Yes, I am.”

“My heart is broken,” Sophia said. “There is nothing that can make me happy again but you.”

And then she sang, her song mesmerising and beautiful. Her voice was like chimes and the melody her voice chased was sweet, though strangely haunting. She produced a little warbling trill that should have been quite pleasant to listen to, but hit notes that sent a deep chill through Arthur.

The music whipped through the wind and called to them; the tune had become eerie and wistful, bitter sorrow twining with the notes. Sophia beckoned and her expression became harder as the rhythm of her wistful _lai_ pulsed up, the light in her eyes suddenly wanton.

As if summoned by the chant, more creatures — mermaids, Arthur could admit to their being real now — appeared. At first they just came to the surface, poking their heads out of the water. When the song burst through, they took to taking turns diving and flipping, jumping out of the water and plunging back in.

Arthur was swaying by now, reeling as though he was in his cups. He could think, but not clearly, and his responses were slowing down as they did when he got drowsy.

Gwaine seemed to be having the same kind of trouble, his limbs growing lax.

As the creatures drew closer to the dinghy, Arthur sleepily noted that one of them didn't resemble a maid at all. No, he looked like a young man, his chest flat, his features as chiselled as they were completely unfeminine. Arthur supposed that this was proof mermen existed.

He kept his distance, not crowding the dinghy as the other mermaids were now doing.

Arthur gazed at him and the merman looked back. He seemed sad, the light in his eyes sombre, his brow set in a frown, his lips pursed. He wasn't singing, merely holding Arthur's gaze, as if studying him.

His eyes were wide and blue, searching him.

As he treaded water, his tapering tail, which was of a rich coppery colour, moved.

He shook his head in a mournful fashion, lowering his lashes, but never quite glanced away.

Arthur felt the same wave of sadness wash over him, caught in a spell. His heart started hammering in his chest and he took in great gulps of air as if to clear his head.

 _You're not going to drag me down to my grave, are you?_ he thought.

Before his very eyes Davis was being lured forwards, tipping over the side as Sophia's hand suddenly appeared out of the spray.

Showing her sharp, fang-like teeth, she wrapped both her arms around Davis' neck and even as he cooed love words at her, she entangled him in her powerful grip and pulled him down, below the surface.

Arthur flicked an angry glance at his merman, and then was shocked into movement, hurling himself towards the spot Davis had just vacated, hoping to save the poor man.

Gwaine grabbed him by his jacket. “Fool, don't. There's nothing you can do for him."

The mermaid had, in fact, disappeared, diving into a wave.

The others, though the merman wasn't among their number, were attacking the dinghy.

 

****

Arthur swam, slicing the water, desperation driving his arms and legs to move faster and faster, legs kicking with a fury born out of the last shreds of his survival instinct. He rose with every stroke, racing, not daring to slow down. His legs were starting to feel like lead; his arms burned and so did his lungs.

He remembered he had to breathe and turned his head to the side to lift his head out of the water. And when he did, he tried to look around, raise his head above the rollers.

He wished he hadn't done it. All around him the _Escetia_ 's sailors were being dragged under, and when they were, their shrieks were drowned by the sea. The water turned crimson with their blood. They were being shredded and torn apart.

He knew that the mermaids were in the water, and that they could get a hold of him at any moment.

They didn't even need to get all that close to him because they were armed with lasso-like strands of seaweed. These could coil themselves around your arm or ankle and then you'd be powerless to resist.

Arthur took in a deep breath, heart beating like a drum, and dove into the next wave. He was a naval officer after all: he'd been known to make long distances just for a lark. He could do this.

But he was fighting against the current and the numbing coldness of the water even though he tried to ignore its deadly pull.

He kicked savagely on, tuning out the savage screams of the dying sailors, until his head ached and the water roared in his ears.

He swam until his heart threatened to climb into his throat and his arms had grown heavy and his legs much like lead.

A big wave washed over him; he swallowed salty water and nearly choked. He stopped to tread water. His eyes stung, his chest heaved, his throat burned, and his legs were past even that. He could no longer feel his body and his lungs were striving for air. He was tired — so very tired.

He felt more and more feeble, darkness oppressing him on every side. Something touched his leg under water, and just like that he went under. Water swirling around his body, he watched unblinking as the surface seemed to get further and further away, as if it was the burnished surface of a mirror that was clouding over in the distance.

He saw lights flashing from what had to be the shore, caught the shimmering of the sirens' tails, but he couldn't move a muscle anymore. He swallowed water, a good deal of it, and it hurt.

His ears roared from the pressure and he was turned over, buffeted this way and that by the current. Everything seemed distant, every noise muffled and all the world outside seemed but a mirage. The darkness around him overwhelmed everything.

Down here there was no light, and a strange torpor crept up his body and seemed to be enveloping his mind, too.

He imagined that he was dying and gave one last upward kick, not giving up despite his increasing feebleness, when he felt a hand seize his wrist and pull him up.

The surface was getting closer and closer and with it he saw the light of the sickle moon. When he re-emerged, wet hair slicked back and the water dripping off his face and nose, he saw its shimmer cut through the water and found he was closer to the shore of Isla Sirena than he'd thought when he'd gone under.

Whatever had grabbed him had disappeared but Arthur had no time to figure out who or what had saved him.

He tried to move with the tide, paddling and flailing towards the beach he could see from where he was.

He swam a few feet straight ahead, telling himself that he needed to save his strength if he wanted to make the last stretch. He needed to let his rate of breathing slow and pace his last effort. He needed to get the mermaids out of his consciousness and focus on crawling forwards.

With the last of his strength, he kicked and stroked and tore himself towards the shore.

When his knees hit rock and sand, he breathed and proceeded on all fours. His chest was rising and falling and his arms scarcely held him up, and yet he moved so he wasn't in the water anymore.

When he deemed himself far enough away from the waterline, he let go, arms trembling. He found himself sprawling there, wet sand sticking to his torn jacket and shirt, to his left cheek and hiding itself under his nails.

He could have closed his eyes and gone to sleep then, but for the mayhem going on around him.

Cenred, who according to the plan concocted in his cabin, had landed to spring the trap, was holding a torch aloft in one hand, a pistol in the other, and shouting, “More light. More light! They're attracted by light.”

A cluster of sailors was bearing torches and nets, but they cowered away from the waterline.

Arthur could see why; the shallows were mermaid infested and as red as the blood spilt in them.

The sirens were attacking the reluctant sailors, charging them with a wild impetus, shrieking at the top of their lungs as they leapt and used their seaweed ropes to grab those of the sailors that were close enough to the shore and shoals.

When a sailor fell into their hands, they sank their teeth into his neck and tore, ripping the skin apart.

“Harpoon them!” cried Cenred. “But don't kill them!”

The men of the _Escetia_ soon started recoiling, scrambling away for their lives. As they fled, some were grabbed and killed, others managed to make the rotten wooden harbour only to be stopped by Cenred and Morgause's guns. “I won't hesitate to shoot you if you don't capture one of them.”

“It's too dangerous,” a young sailor said.

Cenred shot him and the youngster dropped to the ground like a felled ox.

“The choice is yours,” said Cenred.

The officers imitated Cenred, levelling their muskets at the sailors, and the crew could do nothing but make the best of the bargain, though most were casting wide-eyed looks at the sea.

Seeing as they had no way out, the sailors decided to answer violence with violence.

Taking Cenred's advice as the only viable course of action, they started attacking the mermaids back, even though, given the deathly pallors of their faces, they seemed scared to do so.

The sailors started using fish hooks and harpoons, of which they had plenty because even pirates fished on the side to replenish their stock of provisions when on a long cruise.

All this was horrible to witness. Even though Arthur was used to naval actions and the concomitant violence, his heart climbed into his throat as he was watched the goings-on, unable to put a stop to them both because he was too far from the crew and because he had nothing to oppose Cenred's orders with. This was shameful. Men shouldn't act like this at all. He placed a hand before his mouth and gazed, appalled.

The barbed heads of the harpoons sank deep into the flesh of the mermaids’ tails, and terrible wails – high pitched and blood curdling – burst from their lips as if torn from their breasts.

The weapons dug into their long, unmarred throats, ripping them open. Their mouths gaping open as they roared in pain and anger, the sirens were killed one by one.

One agonised flick of the tail and scores of mermaids were gone, their powers diminished now they were so close to the shore and had left the magical depths of the ocean behind. Their collective rage at the men of the _Escetia_ had pushed them to pursue and attack the pirates, thus leaving behind the natural haven of the deeps, where their powers were apparently at the strongest.

Besides, the merpeople hadn't expected an ambush. Arthur guessed they'd seen men as prey up till then and hadn't been on the look-out for retaliation.

More and more blood was spilt among desperate and frantic shrieks.

“No.” Arthur shook his head. Bile rose in his throat as he witnessed the carnage, making him feel sick. He had no particular reason to be fond of the mermaids. They were vicious enough – Davis' death was still fresh on his mind – and when he'd been swimming for his life, he hadn't cared if they lived or died, but this was too much.

If the mermaids had killed mindlessly, the sailors were doing much the same. As barbarously, even. And they were civilised modern men.

“Get one of them alive,” shouted Cenred. “Are you taking a nap? I swear I'll see you to Davy Jones if you don't get me one.”

Even as Cenred roared, Morgause lifted her pistol, fired a shot in the air, reloaded and then shot again.

Arthur understood it was some sort of signal when he saw the _Escetia_ clear her ports.

And then fire was opened on the beach. It was raining everywhere, enveloping the creatures in its fiery sheets, killing random sailors and damaging both the harbour and the structures looming around it.

Arthur had only time to establish that wasn't normal cannon shot and that Morgause must have enchanted the _Escetia_ 's weapon stock so cannon balls took on the properties of Greek fire, before he had to do something about the situation he was in.

It was fire and death, and Arthur had to summon the energy to duck and run if he didn't want to be enveloped by the flames.

After his swim it wasn't easy.

His legs felt heavy, and he tottered onwards, as far away as he could from the shoreline and the raging inferno. He climbed upon a promontory, tottering with every step.

Shards of wood from the harbour structure were flying every which way, and Arthur ducked twice to avoid being caught by the volley of splinters.

He was crouching low, attempting to gain his feet once again, when he saw Gwaine, wet from head to toe but apparently hale, runing as though he had the devil at his heels.

Gwaine saw Arthur, too. He shouted, “Flee!” and continued on his course.

While everybody was too busy fighting for their lives, Gwaine raced towards the old lighthouse that sat on top of the cliff jutting over the beach Arthur had left behind.

Arthur was having a hard time figuring out what Gwaine had set out to do. The lighthouse was dilapidated and lay in ruins, prey to the relentless elements and looking as though it might topple over at any moment.

It would afford but unreliable shelter and would be the first hiding place Cenred would consider, yet Gwaine dashed up the spur path leading up the backside of the cliff.

The rough grass that overgrew it was long and bunched in hardy clusters, and this was clearly slowing Gwaine down. But Gwaine persisted in wading on.

“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur shouted, but Gwaine was too far away to hear him.

Arthur watched him as Gwaine dived into the lighthouse building and waited with bated breath to see what would happen.

For a few long moments nothing did, and Arthur was thinking that it would be a good idea to follow Gwaine's advice and disappear now that Cenred was too busy firing his pistol left and right.

But then Arthur spied Gwaine's form: he was climbing out of an arched Spanish window that overlooked the sheer cliff wall.

“What the hell?” Arthur mouthed and then a myriad of things happened at once. Gwaine dove, free falling the entire length of the cliff. There was a mighty roar, and the old lighthouse imploded on itself, coming to be enveloped in a wall of fire.

Debris started falling everywhere: beams, glass, mortar, stone slabs.

Arthur gaped. He didn't have time to move out of the way.

And then his ankle was grabbed with a strength that seemed to be superhuman. He was knocked down and away.

A huge stone slab crashed on the spot he'd occupied but a few moments ago, splitting in two.

Arthur's breath was knocked out of him as well. His only thought was: _I could have died._

He heaved himself to his feet, knuckles bruised, jacket torn. And that was when he heard the grunting sob. It sounded almost animal in nature, but it was also pitiful to the extreme. Arthur wheeled round to pinpoint its source.

What he saw made his eyes sting. The merman Arthur recognised from the water was trapped under the debris. His tail was crushed, pinning him in place. The fins were flopping and flapping convulsively, in little jerks and spasms. It twitched and beat and slapped.

“I—” Arthur said.

And then he was being shouted at, a silvery net fell over the merman, and Cenred said, “Good job. You got one. But don't think this buys your freedom.”

The merman was now entangled in the shiny net and making vain attempts to free himself. Slowly they subsided, becoming less and less noticeable.

Three crewmen came up to him and grabbed hold of the net. At the same time Morgause, whom Arthur had lost sight of, reappeared, a pistol to a sodden Gwaine's back.

When Gwaine saw what had happened, he said, “Oh no. Now they have one. Poor thing.”

Cenred elbowed Gwaine in the stomach. “Shut up. We still need the silver chalices. Save your compassion for when you yourself don't need any. And remember Elena.”

Arthur flicked Gwaine a glance, but he wasn't heeded.

While Gwaine grunted and complained loudly, the merman fell silent.

No longer thinking about Gwaine's predicament, Arthur found himself hoping the merman's anatomy would allow him to survive out of the water. No living creature should be treated like that.

He crept closer to the merman and watched him as he closed his eyes.

Had he died despite Cenred's attempts to capture a living specimen?

 

****

Uther Pendragon folded his telescope. The sky was clear and they were making good speed at eight knots. The wind had increased, blowing from the west, and with the aid of the brave morning tide, it had been pushing them steadily back towards Jamaica.

Despite having been calm overnight, the seas had built as a direct consequence of the rising gale. It was nothing the ship couldn't weather though.

Under the Captain's watchful gaze, one of the deckhands trimmed the mainsail while another one tensioned the jib halyard, allowing the canvas to fill at once.

At the same time, the second mate locked the helm to hold the ship on course while a crewman added more ballast to steady the vessel. This way she could carry all her canvas even with this wind.

The sound made by the wash of the waves over the prow mixed itself with the flutter of canvas and made Uther proud. His fingers curled around the rail.

Satisfied with the proceedings on deck, Uther allowed himself to look overboard. A group of dolphins was leaping high in the air in the ship's wake. They chased each other, and Uther, who'd seen much of marine life in his long career at sea, couldn't help but think they were, after a fashion, playing or what passed for such amid similar creatures.

When the ship rose to the top of a swell, Uther could see out to sea, past the frolicking dolphins and all the way to the horizon. It was a promise of something, of this he was certain.

“Lace on bonnets,” Uther ordered, feeling that his ship was obeying him, making it possible to achieve his objective. For the first time in days, everything was as it should be.

It was then that the First Lieutenant, Mr Knight, who had been in the forecastle for the greater part of the early morning, walked forward, shaking his head and muttering something Uther couldn't hear over the splash of the sea and the steady thrumming of the rigging.

Soon, though, what was happening became apparent. After him was trailing Sir Geoffrey Monmouth, looking very red about the face.

Mr Knight rolled his shirtsleeves up and turned around to say something to Sir Geoffrey.

Sir Geoffrey, however, didn't seem willing to listen, for he stomped forward, aiming for the quarterdeck.

When they came within hearing range, Uther heard Mr Knight say, “Please, sir, pay attention to the anchor chain, sir.”

“Anchor chain my arse, Mr Knight,” spat old Monmouth, managing to avoid the chain.

“But your seasickness, sir!”

“My rage is making me forget my seasickness, young man. Rest assured of that.”

And then Sir Geoffrey was standing before Uther, upper lip twitching with dismay. “I would like to know the meaning of this!”

Uther scowled, looking out to sea before meeting Sir Geoffrey's eyes dead on. “The meaning of what, pray, Sir Geoffrey?”

“I overheard the men talking about a change of course. I asked Mr Muirden and it seems we're no longer heading for the Mediterranean.”

“That is correct,” said Uther Pendragon.

“And might I ask,” Geoffrey began calmly only to proceed to vent all his frustration, “why that should be the case? Need I remind you that I'm expected in Lisbon, where I'm due to meet King José and his advisors? We want Portugal to stay an ally. Not making the meeting would be an insult to His Highness. Inconceivable: in the history of diplomacy, which I can reference through my library, such a breach of—”

Uther stopped Sir Geoffrey. “We're no longer making for the Mediterrenean, Sir Geoffrey, because one of our ships has reportedly been sunk by a pirate vessel commanded by a man who's wanted by the Crown.”

Sir Geoffrey's bushy eyebrows climbed towards his hairline in a furious frown.

“There's nothing to make me think that this individual, this cur, will stop at the _Avalon._ ” Uther looked upwind; the muscles in his jaw tightened and pulsed. “Now I might write a letter containing a report of what's happened and hope it makes it to London. It would take months to get there, if it did. Then the Admiralty would have to issue new orders to tackle the problem and entrust them to some post captain. Meanwhile, Cenred King and his _Escetia_ will have disappeared, hiding low in one pirate cove or another.”

Sir Geoffrey seemed to grow a shade less ill humoured. “But, but—”

“Shall I describe how difficult and time consuming flushing out pirates from their hideouts is?”

“N-no.”

“There's talk of secret booby-trapped lagoons and uncharted islands. These pirates lure the ships of the line they encounter beyond the reef barriers and into the shallows. And then if the ship gets stuck, they attack. And there's worse,” Uther said, upping the ante with gusto. “Some towns protect and harbour pirates because it's deemed convenient. The power of money and trade, you see. They'd even take up arms to protect their sources of revenue.”

Sir Geoffrey spluttered, “I've certainly heard of such places as Tortuga but—”

“No buts, Sir Geoffrey,” Uther said. “If we don't chase these renegades, they'll find themselves such a secret place, in shallow waters or sounds. England must not allow them to go unpunished.”

“I can see how that would be an ignominy,” said Sir Geoffrey, looking green about the gills. Probably a bout of his old seasickness surfacing again now that he was less furious about the change of plans. “But still, we ought to think of—”

“Of the fact that we should pursue this matter while we still can. Would you want the Spanish to claim credit for disbanding a dangerous band of pirates? I'm sure they would happily take on such a task. I'm sure they'd also lay claim to any stretch of land the pirates call their own.”

Sir Geoffrey blanched and his moustache twitched. “Oh, no. No, we don't want that. I'm sure His Majesty would approve of your idea.”

“He will,” said Uther, “Cenred King will hang at Gallows Point if I have to drag him in chains all the way from here to Port Royal.”

Sir Geoffrey opened his mouth, closed it, then settled for, “I should consult precedent. Unfortunately, I couldn't carry too many books in my chest, but I'll see what I can do.”

Uther turned around, no longer heeding old Sir Geoffrey. “Captain Morris,” he bellowed. “I'll have a look at those maps now.”

 

****

Elena spurred her horse forwards, rising in the stirrups to make sense of the road ahead. Two winding paths faced her: one seemed to lead to a seaside village, of which she could see the low colourful houses washed in the afternoon sun, and the other one pointed southwards and back towards the countryside.

Stalling, she scrunched her nose up, trying to remember the correct path, given that it had been a long time since she'd come this way.

Flashes of images warred one with the other. She hadn't been paying attention back then, too entertained by Gwaine's words and manner to be interested in her surroundings.

She cursed her inattention, saying, “Bad, bad Elena,” but then one image seemed to come to dominate the others. "That might be it," she muttered.

She reined the horse to the right and made for the open island countryside.

Once on the clear path, the horse snorted loudly as though pleased.

Elena hoped that was a good sign and put her knee to the horse's flank.

Once they cleared the rolling acres of pineapple plantations, the vegetation became denser, lush. Tall trees passed by in a blur of rich colours. She encountered dipping green hills and inland salt ponds. Jumping across crevices and rocks and descending into mangrove carpeted gorges, she tasted freedom for the first time since Morgana had tricked her into trusting her.

Hunching low on the saddle to encourage her mount forward, she thrashed headlong through the vegetation.

She and her horse were covering ground quickly and soon Elena found herself out of the jungle path.

A little more galloping led her to an intersection of land and sea. On a circular sandy area, a low bungalow had been built. It was painted light green and next to it stood a shack. A hanging sign read “smithy,” but no passerby, if indeed there had been such, could have mistaken the structure for anything else but a forge.

A shirtless man was, in fact, busy beating a sword into shape. The object spat sparks and fire at every blow and its tip was still as red as a glowing ember.

The man was pounding the weapon with a thick-headed hammer that looked heavy to lift. He was sweating with the effort. A furnace burning with fuel was right behind him, emitting its scalding hot vapours. A pair of bellows were propped at its base.

The smith mopped his brow with the back of his hands, rivulets of sweat running unchecked down his torso and the side of his face. He squinted, assessing his work, put the hammer down, and then dipped the sword into the barrel of rain-water at his side.

The metal hissed and a cloud of smoke rose above it, but the smith was now smiling so Elena deemed this a good time to approach him.

She rode up to the forge, swept off the saddle, and fastened her horse's bridle to a wooden post.

Her thighs chafing from all the headlong riding, she plonked down on a rough bench, puffed out her cheeks, sighed and said, "I need your help, Elyan."

Elyan lifted the sword, which now looked like a proper naval cutlass, and slung it over his shoulder. "No. Not in any way, shape, or form. I won't listen to you or your man's pleadings, dear Elena. You can turn your horse round."

"But I stole that horse in order to come here!"

Elyan let the sword clatter on the first available surface. "That's on you. I have nothing to do with that!"

Elena pouted and grabbed at her hair till it was standing up in the loosest bunch imaginable. "I ran away from the witch who kidnapped me, rode at breakneck speed to find a safe haven, and that's all you have to say?"

Elyan's eyes softened, but he still shrugged. "Uh-uh," he said. "The last time I did something Gwaine asked, I ended up in prison. The time before that....." He pretended to think about it, tapping his chin. "Oh yes, I was locked up in jail, and the time before that I was marooned."

"I'm not Gwaine?" Elena suggested, smiling her best smile.

"True," he said. "The last time you asked me for help, I was chased across the Yorkshire moors by your Lord Father's men, and that just because you'd fallen for that ragamuffin who isn't a friend of mine and decided to share in his life of adventure."

Elena looked down — she hadn't meant to cause such a stir back then, but she hadn't liked living the life of a proper lady — but soon brightened up, saying, "Well, I'm sorry. My papa does love me and he thought I was being abducted."

Elyan laughed, throwing his head back. "If anything, you kidnapped me."

"But everything turned out fine in the end," Elena said.

Elyan donned the shirt he'd left hanging on a hook. It was plain white and v-necked. It had no ruffles, but sat well on him. "Anyway, that time Gwaine was indirectly involved, too. Why shouldn't he be now?"

"It's not his fault!" said Elena.

"Was a tavern involved?"

 

Elena's voice wavered. "Only a little. But he was being blackmailed!"

Elyan's eyebrows danced in disbelief.

Elena continued, "Morgause, Cenred, and Morgana are looking for the Fountain of Youth. We must stop them."

Elyan sat next to Elena, stretching his feet out in front of him. "And what has Gwaine got to do with the fabled Fountain of Youth?"

"He had the map to it."

"He had the map."

"Yes." Elena nodded vigorously, wisps of hair moving about each time her head did.

"And how did the rascal come by the map?" Elyan asked.

"Well," Elena said, trying not to paint Gwaine in too bad a light. "He won it over a dice game."

Elyan burst out laughing, his sides shaking, his head lolling back and hitting the wall at his back. He was laughing so hard, tears were gathering in his eyes. "Of course he did."

"It's serious this time, Elyan." The smile faltered on Elena's lips.

Elyan sobered, too. "Cenred's reputation is indeed grim and Morgause's worse," he reflected. "But what am I supposed to do? I'm alone. Just one man with only a few weapons at his back, and those from my own smithy. And the two of us pitted against Cenred and Morgause? I can tell you we won't win. I know they make use of dark forces."

Elena knew about that, had read enough about the chalices and the Fountain to understand that dark rituals would have to be performed for them to work in the desired manner. She enetertained little hope with regard to Morgause and Cenred's plans. "That's why we must stop them."

"But how?" Elyan sat up. "Just tell me how."

"Well, Calico Jack still owes you his life."

"Oh no." Elyan shook his head vehemently and put up a hand as if to ward off the thought. "No, I'm done with that life. I'm as much of an honest man as I can be now."

"Elyan."

"I won't sail under the Jolly Roger again."

"But," Elena pointed out, "we need help. A crew. And Calico Jack's the best. Besides, Jack hates Cenred."

Elyan's eyes narrowed. "Let's go inside."

He rose and Elena followed him dutifully, scuffing her toes all the way to the door to his house. He pushed it open and it gave a loud creak. "Will have to oil the hinges soon," he said sheepishly, holding it open for her.

Once her eyes adjusted themselves to the dimmer light, she saw that the inside of the bungalow was cosy and welcoming. It was simple, and you could see the owner was not very rich, but it was a cheery place nonetheless.

Much of its furnishings were still made up of materials gathered from round about the island. Wicker fish baskets hung from hooks in the rafters and upturned wooden boxes and crates served as extra furniture. Fishing rods lined the wall on one side while a square wooden table stood in the middle of the room.

Above the table hung a bronze lantern of the kind you could find in lighthouses as well as twigs and sprigs of herbs.

The same went for the window; in addition everlastings bloomed in the vase on the sill.

A long open fire was going and a pot was perched on a tripod above it, the smell of fish stew emanating from it.

A curtain divided the living area from the sleeping one, but it wasn't drawn so the bed was visible. It was plump with feathers, the pillows were stacked high, and the covers were a patchwork of bright colours. Past the bedroom area, a verandah gave onto a small garden which skirted the edges of a lagoon. The back door was thrown open and cool, refreshing winds were rising off the water.

Everything about Elyan's home suggested that it was a well-kept place.

Observing it, her mind veered off from the problem at hand. “This place looks very... unpiratey,” she said.

Elyan pulled a chair back for her. “I told you. I was done with that life. My sister helped me set up house. She's cared for the flowers and stuffed the mattress. She used to frown upon my activities. Now we're patching things up.”

Elena sat and looked down at her clasped hands while Elyan went over to the fire and started ladling stew into a dish. He put it under her nose, and the stew's delicious smell wafted up to her nostrils. He gave her a spoon and said, “Eat. It'll do you good.”

“But I can't. Well, not really. I'm hungry. But I should be helping Gwaine.”

Elyan straddled another chair and rested his chin on the top of its back. “We'll help him.”

“But you said,” she began.

“I know what I said. But I also happen to know where the _Kingston_ is anchored.”

Elena smiled and picked up her spoon. “So we're going to the rescue?”

“After you've eaten and slept...then yes.”

Elena wrapped her arms around Elyan's neck and kissed the tip of his nose.

 

****

 

The captured merman had to be dealt with and he had to be kept restrained. Water had been gathered so he could breathe while on land; all this while he silently scowled at the men involved in an activity aimed at making a captive of him.

His thrashing and gnashing of teeth had made Arthur feel sick. There was no justice to what they were doing to him, none at all, even though his fellow merpeople killed humans whenever they could lay their hands on them.

It wasn't just the merman's predicament that caused Arthur's stomach to flip and his jaw to lock. It was his eyes; the merman's expression was both angry and lost and it was the latter quality that made Arthur want to go to him to offer reassurances or apologise for the savage nature of his own species.

He almost moved but a look from Gwaine stopped him. “Not now,” he mouthed. “Don't.”

Arthur dipped his head in assent and ground his teeth in helpless frustration.

They left the beach behind, Morgause and Cenred leading the way. Gwaine walked a step ahead of them, a rapier point digging between his shoulder blades.

“Lead the way. You read the map. You know where Ponce de Leon's ship was wrecked,” Morgause said.

“What if I've forgotten?” Gwaine asked, winking flirtatiously at Morgause and muttering, “Such beauty is wasted on a mission like this.”

Morgause looked haughty and said, “I'll begin by running you through. Then I'll kill that officer there. And once I'm back in my dear sister's arms, I'll make sure to kill your girl, too. That was the agreement, Captain Jones, wasn't it? Now show us the way or I'll show you my colours.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Gwaine said, saluting. Arthur hadn't missed his thunderous expression, though.

Hours later they were meandering up a slope headed towards the dark heart of Isla Sirena, sun at its midday peak, trekking along alternating patches of shadow and light.

They had passed the line of demarcation between salt and fresh water a long while ago, Cenred hell bent on his goal, and were now in a swamp, interlaced by labyrinths of winding waterways that reached into the depths of the island and back towards the coast to the south.

This tropical swamp was so narrow as to be only wide enough to allow two men to walk abreast. Thick, springy mangrove roots were impeding their progress at every turn, and Cenred's officers had to machete them away to get through.

The sound of their machete cuts bouncing off the hard, bulbous roots overrode all other noises.

After having crossed a shallow river that might have been piranha infested for all they knew, they found themselves standing knee-deep in the brackish, green water. Some pelican nests were perched in the mangrove bushes, but some were placed on the ground, and they had to try not to trip over them as they stumbled forward, dazed by the intense, scorching heat.

All manner of insects, and thousands of different species apparently inhabited this island, kept busy buzzing in their ears and biting them.

As he waded on, Arthur kept swatting away at them, his neck riddled with little red punctures that itched terribly. He'd shed his navy jacket with regret earlier on because the heat had been killing him. Now he longed for the protection it had offered.

Insects weren't as bad as the rest, though.

Arthur spotted a snake slithering up the side of a tree, winding its way around a branch, moving dexterously and silently. It didn't even hiss when it came to dangle off the branch, tail still coiled around its base.

Swiftly, it wrapped itself around a sailor's arm, snapping its jaws open. The man would have been dead if Morgause hadn't darted forward, grabbed the snake, and caused its fanged jaws to close in place. She lifted the creature up so they were eye-level and said, “Beautiful and deadly,” before tossing it away like a length of used rope.

At that, Gwaine blathered something Arthur couldn't quite catch. But glancing Gwaine's way made it possible for Arthur to see the merman once more.

The pirates had enclosed him in some sort of glass coffin or tank; Arthur wouldn't have known what to call that thing if pressed, and it mattered little, though it did look too similar to a coffin for his tastes.

The merman was more than half immersed in water, which seemed to be his natural element and needed for his survival.

Beset by the situation he was embroiled in, Arthur hadn't given much thought to the pirates' captive but for the few moments when he'd seen him struggling earlier that morning.

Every time Arthur's thoughts had turned to him, his stomach had knotted up in an unpleasant bunch, so he'd simply tried not to let them drift in that direction.

But now that Arthur was looking his way, he could see that something was the matter with the merman.

For one thing, he looked as pallid as a dead man. Arthur had noted before that he was as pale as moonlight, but he'd never been quite that translucent. Besides that, he was gasping, keeping his head out of the water and tilting it towards the top of the tank. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, clawing at the smooth glass before they went limp; his lips an unhealthy blue.

Arthur and the merman exchanged glances and there was a light fading in the creature's eyes. They had watched Arthur with curiosity before, when the pirates had put him in his glass prison, but they were losing that spark now, even though they were not unkind. They never had been whenever he was concerned, despite circumstances guaranteed to engender mistrust.

Arthur would rather read hatred in those eyes than surrender. He snapped forwards, shouting, “He's suffocating. He can't breathe!”

The procession halted.

“Quartermaster!” Arthur tried again, adopting the tone of voice he used to issue orders.

The _Escetia'_ s quartermaster stepped forward quickly enough. “What would you be wantin'?” he asked.

“Can't you see that he can't breathe?” Arthur said, swiping a hand at the tank in a look-at-the-evidence kind of gesture.

The quartermaster had the decency to spare a few seconds to look at the merman in his glass prison. He scratched at his scraggly beard and said, “I don't see what's wrong with that. He has water. Everybody knows merpeople need water to live. It's like a law of nature, innit?”

Arthur gasped incredulously. “Yes, just like everybody knew that mermen existed and not just mermaids.”

“That was a surprise,” said the quartermaster. “But it's not like there are books written on merpeople.”

“So you don't know anything about them!” said Arthur. At first he balled up his fists, but then decided to put his hands to better use. He ran his fingertips along the edge of the tank to see if he could lift the lid. He just needed it to give a little. Just a little, for God's sake. “He needs air,” he repeated, certain it was true. They'd have time to study merpeople biology later; for now, he knew that the merman needed air to breathe just as he knew he himself did. “Open this.”

The quartermaster paled, flashing a terrified look at Arthur. “If I open that thing,” he said, pointing at the lock. “He'll escape for sure. And then bye bye old Hardwood.” Casting a terrified glance at Cenred's distant back, the quartermaster wrapped a dirty hand around Arthur's elbow to stop him.

Arthur saw there would be no reasoning with this man. He was too afraid of Cenred and Morgause to use his head. “You're killing him just as surely as if you'd run him through.”

The merman's head was, in fact, hanging listlessly back, his body gone lax.

Gwaine, who had ambled closer once freed of Morgause, said, “He's right. The Captain needs him alive. He'll skin you if the merman dies.”

Arthur twisted and pulled his arm free of the quartermaster's dirty hand.

The quartermaster sprang back, wide-eyed, and Arthur used his surprise to grab the man's poniard, far too good a weapon for such a ragged little man and likely a spoil. He forced the tank partially open, jamming the blade between lid and tank frame.

As soon as he did, the merman propped himself on his elbows and put his mouth to the opening, breathing in huge gasps of air. His chest rose and fell with every inhalation, and he was regaining colour.

“See?” said Arthur, not taking his eyes off the merman. He knelt on the muddy ground and, smiling, put his fingers through the gap. “He's breathing now.”

The merman flashed him a grateful look, tilting his head. Then he grinned and touched his fingertips to Arthur's.

A thrill ran through Arthur's body when he did. It made him shiver and his heart beat faster till he could hear it in his ears. His breathing got a little shallower, too, even though he was now at rest.

“Hello,” Arthur said, stomach somersaulting. “I- uh.” He wasn't sure he knew what to say. The merman wasn't certain to understand his words. Arthur had heard the mermaid that had killed Davis speak, but this merman had been silent from the moment he'd been captured. Did he even speak anything remotely resembling English?

Maybe his doubts had stolen Arthur's eloquence or maybe the merman's bright blue eyes had, but Arthur was hoping for some sign that the merman had understood whatever it was Arthur sought to say.

He'd been clinging to the hope of an answer of some kind, one that went beyond the fleeting touch of fingertips, when Cenred marched back from the head of the column and barked, “What's with this interruption? Onwards!” He unsheathed his sword and made it clear that he wouldn't suffer anyone who tarried gladly.

Arthur sprang back to his feet, letting go of the merman and not getting his answer.

 

****

 

A day later they were still chopping a passage through the largely untouched Isla Sirena jungle.

They came to a halt before a ninety-feet waterfall that cut their path in two and made marching forwards, unless they went on a detour, impossible.

“Dive!” Morgause told Gwaine, prodding him forward at swordspoint. “You must get us the chalices.”

Gwaine threw his hands up in the air and shook his head. “No way, lady,” he said. “This wasn't part of the bargain. I said I'd get you to the Fountain and that I'd tell you where the chalices needed for the ritual were, not that I'd commit suicide by way of jumping from a waterfall.”

“Jump!”

“Why don't you do it?” said Gwaine, bowing as of to say, 'go ahead'.

Morgause lifted her sword till its point rested at the base of Gwaine's skull. “No, Captain Jones. I won't. That's not part of my plan. This is a solo mission for you. You go, get the chalices and come back to us to lead us to the Fountain.”

Even threatened at sword point, Gwaine laughed. “You're funny. You're really funny for a witch.”

“Do it or you won't see Elena again.”

Arthur interevened. “He'll die. You can't dangle the life of someone dear to him before his nose to get him to jump. That's preposterous!”

“Shut him up, will you,” said Cenred and one of the zombie officers punched Arthur in the gut, driving all the air out of him and driving him to his knees.

Gwaine inhaled and his body went taut.

Arthur kept murmuring, “Don't, empty-headed idiot.”

Gwaine winked at him, took a bow, and said to Morgause, “When you put it like that.” He looked down, then up as though to avoid the sight of the drop before him and added, “I'm doing this for my lady.”

Without further ado, he jumped.

Only a madman would have done it, but apparently Gwaine had indeed taken leave of his senses.

Arthur grudgingly admitted to himself that the man might be obnoxious, but he was brave.

After that they'd marched on as though nothing had happened.

As the sun went up the heat became overpowering, the sultriness of the air stifling and stultifying.

At one point, thankfully, the sun was shut out by the outspread arms of the looming trees. The flora wasn't always as handy as that.

Long creepers dotted with the blooms of rare flowers swayed in front of them like curtains needing to be parted.

Their boots were sinking up to the ankles on the boggy ground, producing wet, sucking sounds whilst splashing and bubbling noises accompanied their plodding march.

The ground shifted under them to the point that finding your footing was a difficult task.

As a result, Arthur's calves had cramped hours before. If he hadn't been used to hard navy drills, he would have flopped down and cried 'enough' by now. His travelling companions seemed to be as unhappy with their burden as he was.

It was true that pirates were used to sailing upriver and then marching on to their hiding places, but even they were starting to flag behind, tottering and wobbling and falling off the ranks.

The same was happening to the two crewmen who were carrying the merman's tank. Huffing and puffing, cheeks and necks gone puce from the effort, they started swaying from side to side, the water in the tank splashing and following the direction of their movements.

One of the crewmen who'd been entrusted with the carrying of it, a certain Cedric, stumbled into a mangrove root and crashed to the ground.

While falling, he dropped his side of the tank, which went down, glass shattering, water draining out and getting absorbed by the already soggy soil.

The merman was now lying amid the shards of glass, water gone.

And something odd started happening; the merman's tail, which had been casting the reflection of the sunlight, started gleaming oddly, as pearls under water.

When the shimmer faded, so did the scales; they receded progressively as if by enchantment, till the mermaid's skin was no longer covered in them at all.

The merman now had legs, two legs like any other human being. They were long and bony and bare. Like the rest of him.

Everybody could now see that the merman looked like any other man when out of the water.

His hips were sharp, his belly flat, his cock was lying lazily across his thigh, flaccid and dark pink.

He was nicely formed, everywhere, and Arthur drank him in for a second or two, marvelling at the wonders of mother nature, before chiding himself for behaving no better than the pirates.

They were all having an eyeful; everybody was staring, and he was being no better.

Arthur thought that unseemly, the more so when the merman hunched in over himself. Arthur leapt over a root and reached the merman. He squatted by his side and touched his shoulder, still cool from the water, with his fingertips. “Please do not worry. Here,” he said.

He stripped his shirt off, baring his chest, and gave it to the merman so he could wear it. It was a big shirt and there was enough fabric to spare— enough to cover the merman's upper thighs so he wouldn't offer a spectacle to the leering eyes of the crew members.

The merman looked down at himself and ran his palm down the fabric, as if learning by touch. His mouth was half open and a tiny frown marred his brow.

“It's Indian cotton,” Arthur said. “It comes from the East Indies.”

The merman lifted his head and made as if to say something, but Cenred marched up to them, blustering, “Why are you stopping, you lazy curs!”

“The tank broke,” explained Cedric. “And he's got legs now.”

“Has he?” said Cenred, coming to loom over Arthur and the merman. “Then he can use them to walk. Now!”

The merman held his head high and glared at Cenred.

Seeing that the merman wasn't obeying his orders, Cenred lifted his pistol and said, “An odd creature you might be, but I'm sure you're mortal.”

“Yes,” said the merman, thus proving he could talk. “And I'm also of the fae, neither a creature nor a slave.”

Cenred cocked his pistol.

“Come on,” Arthur told the merman. “Try to walk.” He was certain Cenred was at the end of his tether and that even though he needed a tear from a living merman, he wouldn't hesitate to give in to his foul mood. He was leering as though nothing would please him better than being opposed right now, just so he could have an excuse to shoot.

Meanwhile, the merman studied Arthur. His eyes bore into him, wide and searching. His lips tightened and he nodded to himself. Helping himself with his hands, he tried to right himself and stand.

For a few moments it seemed as though he would succeed, but his legs trembled with the strain. He attempted to take a tentative step, hands out for balance, as if trying out this new activity, but he stumbled and his legs gave from under him like a new born colt's.

The simile fit. After all the merman was pretty much like a new born colt; he'd never used those legs of his quite like that before. In a jiffy, the merman was down again, nostrils flaring, face flaming.

“Walk,” said Cenred, more calmly than before. “Or I'll find myself another one or your kind.”

“He can't,” protested Arthur. “Can't you see that he's not used to having legs at all?”

“I need him at the ritual site,” said Cenred, pushing his plumed hat down on his brow while gesticulating with his flintlock pistol. “I don't care how. He can crawl or drag himself all the way there. If he can't...well, then—”

Arthur didn't need Cenred to complete that sentence. He shifted closer to the merman, passed one arm under his knees, the other around his shoulders, and heaved. He came to his feet, balancing the weight of the merman in his arms.

Although he was slight of build, the merman wasn't weightless at all, and marching like this was a mad idea, but Arthur couldn't think of a better one at the moment. Not one that would get them both out of this alive.

“You don't have to do this,” the merman protested. “I don't want you to. I'm not—”

“What?” asked Arthur. “You're not just now adapting to walking?”

Arthur started walking himself. Cenred nodded his head, and Merlin said, “No, I've been stranded before. Once or twice. When there's no water, we get bodies like yours. But it's not familiar. That's not the point, really.”

Arthur adjusted his grip on the merman, purposefully lagging behind, the column of Cenred's men snaking before them. “And what's the point? Tell me. I'm curious.”

“I'm not helpless.”

“I didn't say you were,” Arthur told the merman. “But you are annoying and a little ungrateful. I'm lending a hand here.”

“Well,” the merman answered, “you might be. But if you're helping the man that flies the black banner, then you're not very bright.”

“Oh, my, thank you again,” said Arthur sarcastically.

Since Arthur was being slow — both deliberately and because the merman seemed to grow heavier with every step – they were now the last but two in the line of men making progress through the Isla Sirena jungle. Only two men plodded on behind them: two Spaniards who were forming the rear.

Arthur knew they'd positioned themselves that way so that he and the merman couldn't flee, but he was surprisingly all right with that set of circumstances. Of all the crew members, these were the only two who had not a single word of English.

“No sane man should want to help that Cenred,” said the merman. “I, for sure, don't want to help that man. I don't want to make getting where he wants to go easy for him. I know the reason why he needs my tears and it's nothing good.”

Arthur's hands tensed under the merman's knees. “How so? I mean, it seems he's in cahoots with a.... Oh hell, I suppose Morgause's a true witch.” The admission cost Arthur. He'd always laughed at those credulous people who thought that sorcery existed, and now he was one of them. “And he wants the Fountain of Youth, so I guess he's after immortality. But even though I'd gladly rid the world of Captain King—” Here he lowered his voice. “—I don't see what's so dark about the pursuit.”

“You humans are strange,” said the merman, wiggling in Arthur's grip. “All magical beings are powerful. All the magic that stems from them is just as huge. That ritual is binding, but what's more, it's a trap. It's like murder.”

“I don't understand,” Arthur said in a voice so low no one could overhear. “I really don't.”

“The ritual requires two participants,” the merman explained. “We merpeople know about it because we've been hunted for our tears because of it.”

“I've seen that first hand,” said Arthur, remembering the blood that had been shed.

A shiver went through the merman. “Yes, there's that. But we're not the only victims. Two chalices are used. Both of them full of water. One of them needs to contain a mermaid tear. The member of your species that drinks from the water filled chalice dies. His life's stolen from him to the other participant's advantage.”

Arthur's heart missed a beat. He attempted to control his features, but he feared they'd frozen against his will. “I should have known.”

“Well, yes,” said the merman, cocking his head so as to meet Arthur's eyes. “You should have. But humans aren't very bright.”

“Thanks again.”

“So not bright that they might get themselves killed.”

Arthur widened his eyes comically. “I didn't know you cared for me.”

The merman lowered his eyes and wriggled again. Arthur felt his back give a little twinge and he grimaced.

“Put me down,” the merman said. “I'm hurting you.”

“No, I—”

“Stop being overly nice when you're arrogantly stubborn most of the time anyway, and put me down. I need to come to terms with this two legs oddness.”

Arthur took another step, but this one was so faltering, Arthur saw the wisdom in the merman's proposition. Not that he was willing to admit that, however. Huffing and pouting, he put the merman down. But that didn't mean he was done helping. Placing his arms around the merman's waist, Arthur supported him, aiding him to bear his own weight.

The merman took a few tentative steps of his own.

“One in front of the other,” said Arthur. He'd once overheard a father say as much to his toddler; somehow he thought it applied.

“You know,” said the merman, “it might be easy for you but this is quite a new experience for me. I much prefer water.”

Arthur smiled at the merman. “I bet you do.”

The merman dimpled back at him. “Because it's freedom.”

Arthur got a little lost in the merman's eyes, for this close, they were as blue as the seas Arthur had spent his life sailing. “Do you have a name?” he found himself asking. And then he was floundering like a tiny boat in a gale. “That is, do you merpeople give each other names?”

As soon as he'd said that, Arthur felt stupid, shoulders going rigid. He wished the question unasked for he was sure it was an idiotic one requiring an obvious answer that would make Merlin think Arthur wasn't too bright — yet again.

The merman, though, gave him an open grin. “Of course we do. I go by a few names but I'm mostly known as Merlin.”

“Merlin the merman,” Arthur said, lips quirking up of their own volition. “Quiet poetic.”

“Your kind is strange,” Merlin muttered as if to himself.

That said, Merlin toddled forward, going more speedily even if his land balance was totally shot. "This could be fun in other circumstances!"

Arthur could only direct a rather foolish grin of his own at the back of Merlin's head.

When night fell, Cenred was forced to stop. The mangrove jungle was too dangerous to be crossed at night. Even though he continued cursing and asking Morgause whether they were close to the Fountain site, he allowed the men to bivouac in a clearing.

The sailors made a fire and sat around it. They started roasting some fish, the smell permeating the air around them, and shared pieces of salted meat they'd carried in their packs with them. A bottle of spirits was also passed around, and with it the mood lifted, for the sailors started singing songs of death and looting—all classic pirate tunes.

Once upon a time, Arthur's anger would have risen at the mere mention of such themes. Now he still despised pirates, buccaneers, and free-booting, but he had more pressing concerns. He still pursed his lips, though.

He and Merlin sat away from the fire and the crew of the _Escetia_. At one point Cedric came up to him and said, “Morgause said you might still be valuable and that you should eat.” He held out a leaf upon which sat a few morsels of fish and a couple of dry biscuits.

Arthur accepted the offer but only because he needed to preserve his strength for his own purposes.

Cedric smiled. “I hope you'll remember my services if you ever return to the navy and we should fight on different sides.”

“If we do, then I'll arrest you in His Majesty's name.”

Cedric's expression changed. He spun on his heels and stomped away, muttering something about there being no gentlemen any longer.

Arthur brought a piece of fish to his mouth and chewed. It tasted better than anything he'd eaten since he'd shared the fare at his Captain's table on the Avalon. A muscle in his jaw ticked at the thought that all his fellow officers had died.

“Uh,” said Merlin. “Are you sad?”

“No,” said Arthur. “No, I—”

“I think you're lying,” said Merlin, scooting closer. “Your face went all....” He made an impression of Arthur's face, wresting a smile from Arthur. Merlin shoulder nudged him.

Arthur's expression changed. He frowned and held up the food that Cedric had given him. “Oh my God. I completely forgot. You must be starving.” He pushed the leaf under Merlin's nose.

Merlin sniffed and screwed up his face. “I don't like what your people do to perfectly reasonable food.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur couldn't see what was wrong with the fish. It wasn't the best he'd ever tasted. But it was good enough, considering.

“You put it on a spit and cook it till it's all dried up.”

Arthur boggled. “You mean to say you prefer it raw?”

“How else is one supposed to eat what the ocean offers?” asked Merlin, pushing the leaf and its contents back towards Arthur. “What you do to the fish seems silly.”

“Ah,” said Arthur, holding up a biscuit. “I don't suppose I could tempt you with this?”

Merlin cocked an eyebrow at him, shrugged, smiled a rather unimpressed smile, and took the biscuit from him. He imitated Arthur, bringing it to his mouth and smelling it as if he thought it had gone bad. He licked at it tentatively, made a face, persevered, took a bit and swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

“You didn't have to do that,” Arthur pointed out, angling his body fully towards Merlin. “Your facial expressions aren't that hard to read.”

Merlin shrugged. “I— You. Well.” He looked at his feet, wiggled his toes, smiled and lay back, hand supporting his head. “You're different,” he said, as if he was musing and considering that for the first time.

Most noises had died down, for the sailors had looked exhausted and gone to sleep, rolling on their backs and snoring as loudly as possible. But for the guards making sure the camp was safe and Merlin and Arthur wouldn't try to escape, they were the last two awake.

“I still don't get you,” said Arthur, following Merlin's example and lying down. A shiver ran down his spine from the cold but he knew he would get no blanket. He flopped onto his side and propped himself on his elbow so he could watch Merlin.

Merlin stared at the moon above, twin splotches of colour on his cheeks and across his nose. “You're different from them. I noticed. You didn't try to kill any of us. You're Cenred's prisoner. You.... Your actions were honourable.”

Arthur thought back to what had happened during the last eventful days. Davis' death, swimming for his life, the sirens' massacre. He'd done his best, but he still thought he should have done something to prevent the slaying of the mermaids. They weren't innocent creatures either, though. Were they? Their nature was.... Arthur rolled flat on his back, a hand on his stomach.

“I shouldn't have been on that boat,” he said stiffly.

“And you shouldn't be here, but you can’t escape.”

“Thank you, for the vote of confidence,” said Arthur sarcastically. “It doesn't change things. And neither does it change the fact that your race kills mine. You're all deadly, aren't you?”

“Deadly?” repeated Merlin, paling. “What? No!”

“Sophia,” Arthur said. “Have you forgotten her? I thought she was your leader.”

Merlin sat up. “She is.”

Arthur passed a hand over his face, trying not to raise his voice, thus alerting the pirates. “She was luring sailors to their deaths.”

“That's because the seas are ours,” said Merlin, though he didn't sound too convinced. “Why do you venture so far away from your homes when you know it's dangerous?”

“Duty. A thirst for knowledge,” said Arthur snippily. “Can't you understand wanting to explore the world?”

“Of course,” Merlin told him, burying his head in his knees and turning his face so he could still look at Arthur. “I've always wanted to... escape and explore the sea on my own.”

“Well, then.”

Arthur closed his eyes. He shifted and grunted.

“I don't think you're like Cenred at all, even if most men hate us,” Merlin said, his voice filling the darkness. He sounded earnest and young. His tone was as far from Sophia's wiles as possible. Or maybe Arthur was being just as foolish as those enchanted sailors.

“I've never killed a man,” said Merlin. “Never.”

Arthur opened his eyes, his hand inching towards Merlin, but resting on the ground between them. “I believe you,” he said, though he had to swallow and brace himself to say the words. And then, “Am I enchanted? Am I like Davis? Have you enchanted me?”

“What!” Merlin exclaimed, gripping his arm, fingers digging painfully in Arthur's bicep. “No, I've never. I'd never. I thought....”

“You pushed me down out of the way,” said Arthur, only now realising this. When he'd been on the beach, chunks of stone falling his way, Merlin hadn't been trying to do anything but save him. "And when I was drowning, you got me closer to the shore."

Merlin didn't say anything for a long while, the sounds of the jungle seeming louder because of his silence. A while later, throat working, he said, “I'd never hurt you.”

Arthur fell asleep to that, thoughts dissolving in darkness and his body's need for mindless rest. When he woke up, sunlight playing on his eyelids, Merlin's hand was cupping his neck, the touch warm and simple.

Arthur blinked, focusing on Merlin's sleeping form, and thought to himself that he wanted nothing better than to sidle closer still and kiss that mouth, taste it. He couldn't have acted on it even if he hadn't had to contend with the barrage of emotions and second thoughts, a fear of changing whatever it was between them, animating him.

He couldn't have, for Cenred shouted, “Bring the creature. It begins.”

“He has a name,” Arthur shouted to the curs that seized Merlin. “His name's Merlin.”

“How interesting,” was Morgause's comment.

****

They had cleared Jamaica a while back when the lookout shouted, “Men at sea!”

The sailors bounded towards the bulwarks to see the sight and all normal activity ceased among the _Camelot's_ crew. The men craned their necks, stopped working at their appointed tasks, and peered out to sea.

Uther, jaw ticking with anger, had at first believed that one of the deckhands, likely intoxicated, had managed to end up overboard.

Despite the severe regulations concerning grog and rum distribution, it wouldn't have been the first time such a thing had happened. Any man might deem himself lucky if the lookout had noticed his flight over the rail. Otherwise, drowning would be in order.

But then Morris focused his spyglass and said, “Oh my God, sir. I can clearly see two men clinging to a wood plank. There, to starboard.”

“What do you mean?” asked Uther. He snatched the spyglass from Morris and decided he'd look for himself. The clouds that had been present earlier that morning had been blown away by the wind, so they had perfect visibility.

After a little fiddling with the lenses, Uther saw that Morris and the lookout had been right. The heads of two men, which looked more like dots than human appendages from this far away, were easily made out as they stuck out of the mass of unrelieved blue.

Uther lowered his telescope. “Lower the boat!” he ordered, appointing five men, including the bosun, with the task of picking up and rescuing the shipwrecked sailors that had first been spotted by the lookout.

When the jolly boat touched the choppy water, the patent hooks disengaged themselves and she pulled away from the ship, headed out on the starboard side, and quickly cleared off, the rhythm of the oarsmen in perfect synchronization.

The two shipwrecked individuals were meanwhile struggling in the water. One was grabbing onto the side of a thick plank with all his might while the other was clinging to the opposite end, hanging on for all they were worth.

Uther watched as the jolly boat made it to them. Her crew shouted out to the survivors and faint answering cries were emitted in return. Soon Uther saw the bosun throw a length of rope to the wrecked sailors, who were slowly and laboriously helped on board the jolly boat.

When the drenched men were safe onboard, they were given a blanket each and then the jolly boat faced around and started its way back towards the _Camelot._

Having observed the action unfold, Uther said, “Fetch Gaius. Those men will need a doctor.”

Mr Muirden said, “Aye, sir, and relayed the order to a young, eager midshipman.

Ten minutes later the two shipwrecked sailors were on deck, dripping water and looking as if they were about to keel over. They trembled in place, clutching at the blankets they'd been given like life preservers. They'd lost their shoes and there were rips and tears in their shirts.

“Which ship do you belong to?” Uther asked. “Who was your Captain?”

The men didn't answer immediately. They kept nudging one another; Uther took it to mean that they were prompting each other to speak. At last one of them took a step forward and said, “My name's Bill, sir. We served on a merchantman, sir.”

“Aye, that we did,” his companion agreed.

“What was her name?”

“The, er—” one of the sailors began.

The other completed that sentence, “ _The Lady's...”_

 _“Fan.”_

“Perhaps we should look for other survivors,” Morris interrupted hopefully. “We wouldn't lose more than a day.”

Uther knew that he couldn't let any more men die. If there were other survivors they would have to be rescued. There was no way he could ignore their predicament and violate the officer's moral code. He still felt like this was a great curse; each day was one more day Arthur could die.

He would have barked an order, saying that of course they would, when the first rescuee spoke. “There's no need, sir. No need at all. We saw the ship go down. All souls lost. All of them.” Then turning to his companion, he added, “Tell them.”

“Are you sure?” Morris asked. “If there's but one other soul we can save... I'd be all for setting up a search for survivors.”

“There are none!” said the second rescuee, the one that had been mostly silent. “The ship sank and its crew died. They all died.”

“All of them?” Morris repeated, tone puzzled.

“To the last one,” said the second sailor. “No use searching. We're in Myrddin Bay. Those that survived the wreck were killed by the mermaids.”

Uther stared hard at the man standing in front of him and his eyes narrowed to slits. There was something odd about the way he'd hurried to give this testimony of his fellow crew members' demise. Uther was preparing another question to shed light on the facts when Gaius appeared, ducking out of the hatch.

As usual, he wasn't wearing his jacket, but only his shirt and a caftan he'd acquired in a North African port, which, he said, kept him perfectly cool and was ideally suited to the Caribbean climate.

Upon seeing the survivors, Gaius lifted an imperious eyebrow and said, “I was summoned to examine and tend to two shipwrecked sailors. The least you could do, sir, is let me do my job by ceasing this questioning.”

Uther sighed impatiently. “Very well. You can take them to the sick bay.”

Gaius nodded. The loblolly boy and the surgeon's mate helped the two survivors negotiate the hatch stairs below deck.

As for Uther and Morris, they went to the cockpit and started poring over maps and discussing tactical moves.

They were canvassing the advantages of trying to follow the _Avalon'_ s last known course, when Gaius poked his head in, coughing and winging an eyebrow.

“I wouldn't wish to interrupt, sir,” he said. “But I have some news to impart that might affect your next decisions.”

Uther puzzled over the words for a few moments. Gaius rarely had anything to say relating to courses, strategies, or tactics. He would often clamour for the ship to put in at a port so they could cargo in more fruit and vegetables, which seemed to keep the men healthy, but aside from that he rarely interfered.

He waved Gaius in. “Pray tell us, Gaius,” Uther said, folding one of the maps. “What is this piece of news?”

“I examined my two new patients,” Gaius began.

“Oh,” said Morris, sounding relieved. “How are they?”

“Sun burnt, dehydrated, and tired,” answered Gaius, keeping it brief. “But that was only to be expected. Their overall condition seems to be good given the circumstances of their rescue.”

“I'm glad,” said young Morris.

Uther, however, had known Gaius a long time and suspected there was more. “What else?”

“Naturally, I had them undress,” said Gaius. “No proper examination should take place when the patient's still dressed. It renders the palpation of tender areas useless.”

“Gaius!” Uther said, wanting to know what it was that Gaius had found.

“My two patients bore tattoos.”

Uther let out a breath and laughed. “Most sailors do. I've seen tattoos of every colour, shape, and form.”

Deep furrows appeared on Gaius' forehead. “Not tattoos like these. These are typical of certain inmates of Port Royal prison. Mostly those that have made piracy their calling.”

Uther closed his eyes and breathed deep. “Freebooters.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Shock and fury must have clashed in Uther's eyes for that was how he felt. “And we're in Myrddin Bay. That means those two rascals we rescued are Cenred's men.”

“Oh my God.” said Morris, training his eyes on Gaius.

“Indeed,” said Gaius.

Uther clenched and unclenched his fists. “I'll speak to them. By the time I'm done with them they'll tell me where Cenred was headed.”

“So you don't think the _Escetia_ has sunk?”

“No,” said Uther, voice a croak. “The messenger who brought me news of Art— news of the _Avalon_ — said that Cenred was looking for Myrddin Bay. He'd meant to go there all along.”

Morris sucked in air through his nose. “But still... if what the legends say is true....”

“Oh, no,” said Uther, thumping a hand on the table where the charts they'd consulted were strewn. “I know it in my bones. Captain King is alive, and those men know where he last was headed.”

“Sir, if you'll permit me—”

“The _Escetia_ 's a galleon, Gaius,” Uther said, pointing out what should have been obvious. “We saw no masts or timbers adrift... nothing to speak of the wreck of a large vessel. Cenred lives.”

Uther thundered down the deck, heading for the sick bay. He parted the canvas and stomped inside it.

The two men were lying on two different berths and were covered by two blankets each. They were sleeping soundly, mouths open, facial muscles slack.

“Up!” Uther roared. “Up now. You'll answer me.”

One of the man flailed upright, hands windmilling. The other snored on.

Uther lifted the basin Gaius used to wash his hands before performing surgery and poured the contents over the second's pirate's head.

He shot up as his companion had done, which was when Uther grabbed him by the shirt and snarled into his face. “Where was Cenred going?”

“Cenred? Cenred?” the man gasped. “I don't know no Cenred.”

Uther let him go. “Lies won't buy your life.”

“You can do nothing to me,” the pirate observed. “You're a navy man. You have rules.”

“I can hang you for a pirate,” said Uther, now back in control. “Then there's the way you get there. Believe me, no man on this ship feels sympathy for your despicable kind.”

“I know nothing,” said the pirate while the other one concurred. “Got nothing to tell the likes of you.”

Uther smiled thinly and took a few backward steps. “The prisoner you wanted to ransom is my son.” He picked up one of Gaius's sharp surgical knives from a side table and started playing with it. He passed the tip of his thumb over the blade, making a small cut. Blood welled up. Uther sucked on it and said, “Sharp.”

The pirates shared a look.

 

****

The waterfront tavern was housed in a low building situated in a rundown part of town that was only a stone's throw away from the harbour. An arch of glass panes surmounted the wooden and creaking entrance door, but that was the establishment's one and only claim to glory.

A fat wooden post stood in front of it, upholding a swinging sign that read the “Jolly Sailor.” Under the inscription the head of a laughing sailor wearing a plumed hat was painted.

The Jolly Sailor's interior was ill lit and overcrowded. Men swilled beer from tall tankards while others lifted their bottles of Jamaica rum, threw back their heads, and drank as though the rum was water.

Most of the patrons sported wrinkled, sunburnt faces that looked as though they'd been carved out of ragged parchment; most of them also wore crafty expressions typical of those who'd survived against all odds.

As Elena and Elyan entered, deals of all kinds were being transacted and spirits were flowing. A few mariners weaved unsteadily towards the bar, braying the names of the girls from the brothel right across the street.

Scattered around the room were a fair number of tables and booths. These tables had no finish and looked dirty and grimy. Their edges were rounded from constant use and the stools looked rickety.

Rings of smoke rose in the air proceeding from a number of lit pipes, the smell of tobacco tickling Elena's throat and nose till she had to hide a cough.

A man was strumming an instrument and singing a song, while girls, all of them scantily dressed and showing off their assets, danced around him, shoeless, wearing their hair loose in a fashion that would have had Elena's old grandma turning in her grave.

A jig was struck on a fiddle and some of the youngest patrons kicked their heels and invited the girls to dance.

An old man was kissing a young girl in a corner booth while the girl was slipping her hand in his pocket and lifting a gold chain out of it.

After all, this was, as Gwaine had often said, the kind of place where wine and women drained the wealth of the stranded seamen. But those were not the only traps an unwary person might walk into.

A group of fellows was busy playing a game of dice that Elena was sure was rigged.

“Watch out,” Elyan told her through gritted teeth. “Men have been known to fall asleep in the back room only to find themselves conscripted on a pirate vessel.”

“I promise I will,” Elena said. “I don't intend to be sidetracked.”

“Well, then,” Elyan said, weaving through the tables, “I can breathe. Your only fear is not being able to rescue Gwaine as soon as possible.”

Elena ignored Elyan's attempt at sarcasm and redirected the conversation. “Will we find him here?” she asked. “Are you sure?”

Elyan nodded. “He told me he could always be found here.”

“And we just ask for him and he'll come?”

“Well, no,” Elyan told her, shepherding her towards the counter. “It doesn't quite work like that.”

Elena grabbed Elyan's sleeve. “And how does it work?”

“We get noticed first,” he said.

Then he swaggered up to the bar counter, which was made of planks resting on barrels, and started moving in a totally different way from what Elena had seen thus far. It reminded her of the way a feral cat would move through the wild. She surmised he was channelling his pirate persona.

Elyan thumped his hand on the counter and said, “My good tavern keeper, a flagon of beer for each of your customers. It's on me.” He opened a button of his shirt and lifted a little pouch that had been hanging around his neck up and over his head. He slammed it on the bar.

The innkeeper looked sceptical. He undid the string tying the pouch and took a gold coin out of it. He weighed it in his palm and bit it for good measure. “It's good,” he said. “Real gold.”

Elyan didn't point out there was no reason to doubt his word. He kept wearing this huge smile Elena knew was not his genuine one.

Assured that Elyan had the wherewithal to pay, the innkeeper rang a bell and shouted, “Free beer for everybody.”

There was some general cheering; all of the men and women crowding the tavern looked up from their activities. Most of them stopped doing what they'd been doing and came over to the bar, accepting their free drinks.

They all slapped Elyan on the shoulder and one or two of the old men lifted their caps at Elena.

“There's a good fellow what knows how to be social,” said one.

“Good lad, indeed.”

“If you need a job and you're fine with caulkin' and the like, I could put in a good word with the second mate of the ship I work on....”

Elyan smiled and took up his own tankard, saying, “Cheers, but that's not exactly the kind of occupation I had in mind.” He drank a measured sip. “Me and my friend — she's served with me like and we're together in this — are looking for our old Captain....”

The man Elyan had been talking to wiped at his mouth. “And who was that? Plenty of captains pass by these parts. There are those that have a ship but not a crew, those that have a crew already but need a ship, and then there are those who have both. They are the best of the lot. For example I know of a fine sloop that just hove to outside Nassau Harbour; it's laden with indigo, claret and sugar. The boatswain is seeking men to hire.”

Elyan put his glass down; Elena moved closer, suspecting that Elyan was about to ask about the whereabouts of Jack Rackham.

“No, no,” said Elyan affably. “We're looking for a specific person. Old Captain Rackham.”

Their interlocutor choked on his drink and spat half of it out. “Calico Jack?” The man's eyes became as round as saucers. “You don't go looking for Calico Jack.”

The other pirates rolled with laughter.

Elyan stayed composed. “I'm sure good old Jack would be happy to see me. I have stories to tell about the good old days I served on the _Kingston._ ”

“Bless me,” said the old pirate. “I isn’t seen that many people who've come a-knocking for Jack. Jack recruits you, but you don't go asking for him.”

“I'm sure he'll be disappointed to hear his old friend Elyan came visiting and he wasn't told where to find Jack.”

“And how do I know you be no crown agent on a mission from King George or one of the Chief's Justice men?”

“I swear this is no trick,” said Elyan, leaning against the counter, displaying an open body language.

The pirate didn't look as though he was convinced. His facial muscles were twitching, twisting the scars he sported on his weathered face. “The Chief Justice's men would say the self-same thing.”

“You could question me,” said Elyan invitingly. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and jacket in a casual manner, yet displaying a tattoo, a Jerusalem cross, he couldn't have got anywhere but aboard either a pirate ship or privateer. “I know things no red coat knows.” He eyed the corner table where a game of dice was still going on. “We should still have that chat. Over a nice game, perhaps?”

The old pirate didn't fail to notice Elyan's tattoo even though it was faded. His old face relaxed and, tankard still in hand, he limped over to the table where the gaming was taking place.

There, Elyan placed his wager, putting his whalebone chip on an area marked with the words "Pass Line" styled in chalk.

The pirate blew on his closed fist and said, “Luck is a lady,” winked at Elena and rolled the dice, both six-sided mother of pearl cubes that had rather rounded corners.

There was some hooting and hollering when the pirate missed the number he needed to win. He had rolled a two. He would have to throw again before he could win or lose. The second time he rolled a four. Having established a point, he tried a third time, hoping to roll his number again before he drew a seven. He didn't.

It was Elyan's turn to play and the pirate's to bet on him. Elyan flicked his wrist and threw the dice onto the table. The dice continued to shift till he scored a 10.

“Shooter's point,” said the man who represented the House.

Elyan tried again, ditching his former pair of dice, saying, “Change of dice, change of luck.”

Change effected, Elyan rolled the dice again, and Elena's hand went to her mouth. One of the dice landed on a four and the other on a two.

“Pity,” said the House. “One more and that would have been a seven.”

Tossing his coins down, the pirate Elyan was playing with said, “He must win now. We've both lost twice.”

Elyan tossed the dice for the third time.

Elena followed their dance.

The pirates were taking Elyan's side, murmuring, “Come on, come on, a seven! Just a good ol' seven!”

Elyan got a five. He tried one last time, holding the dice in the air and throwing them on the table. Another five.

Money kept piling up in the House's corner while the pirates tried to edge their way to the table to see what was going on.

Elena arched her eyebrows at the proceedings, waiting for the other penny to drop.

“The dice is always coming up against the player,” the old pirate Elyan had been drinking with said, pointing eloquently at his and Elyan's dwindling pile of whalebone chips.

Elyan grabbed Elena's arm just as a chorus rose up. “The House is cheating; that's what it is.”

“Yes, he's a swindler,” others agreed. “Robbing us of our wages.”

The old pirate put down his tankard of beer with a dull thud and his hand went to his rapier's hilt.

Others couldn't resist the temptation to draw. The House's eyes flashed; he kicked back the table, sending dice, chips and coins flying, and sprang to his feet, squirreling his way out of the throng.

As one, all the pirates in the tavern rose to their feet, some of their weapons unsheathed, their fists raised, all of them ready to apprehend the swindler. Scowling faces were at every turn, each of them filled with menace.

While at first the objective of the pirates had been clear and easy enough to figure out — getting back at the cheat — after a while it got lost in the scuffle.

One man hit another, not having meant to. The other wouldn't believe him and insulted his mother and all his relatives to the tenth generation and soon all hell broke loose.

Punches flew and connected, fingernails scratched, breaking skin, and grunts were heard.

Tables, chairs and every piece of furniture that wasn't nailed down went flying. Each man was trying to force his neighbour into surrender although the reason for this outbreak of violence seemed generally unknown, for Elena saw men quarrelling who'd been on good terms before the fisticuffs began.

Wherever Elena turned, men were grappling and rolling on the floor. “Did you have this in mind?” Elena yelled at Elyan to be heard over the din.

“I forgot pirates could be so volatile,” said Elyan, grinning sheepishly. He grabbed her arm and shouted, “Maybe we should get out of here.”

Elena dragged her feet. “No, not till we've found Jack!”

“Not even Gwaine would be such a fool as to stay in a place like this at a moment like this!”

As if to prove Elyan right, Elena watched as an older man grabbed the arm of a youngster and twisted it behind his back in a way Elena found outright vicious. “Hey, that is mean.”

The older pirate stopped having a go at the boy and, face twisted up in rage, charged Elena as though he was a bull.

Elena had no time to think about how to act; she just remembered Gwaine's lessons for dealing with scum and punched the man flush on the jaw.

She gave a yelp of pain, all the little bones in her hand hurting like nothing had ever hurt before, but the man went down like a poled ox.

Before he could get up or she could tell Elyan “Have you seen how I knocked him out?” once more, a man appeared on the railed landing that led to the first floor of the house.

He cleared his throat, saw that didn't seem to calm the spirits of the men involved in the brawl, and put his hand to his holster. With extreme nonchalance, he cocked his weapon and fired a shot in the air.

The main swinging lamp crashed to the floor.

All the people in the tavern fell silent.

“Now that I have your attention, gentlemen,” the man said in a half-annoyed, half-authoritative tone, “can I be acquainted with the reason for all this noise? I was in my private room, relaxing after a cruise that was fruitful to all of you.” He let the last words sink in on his audience. “Only to be disturbed by this! Now speak.”

One of the sailors pointed at the conman who'd set the game of dice going. “He was cheating. He was robbin' us of our earnings.”

“Yeah,” several people shouted. “Jack, that man should be punished. 'Tis the code.”

Elena saw that many balled-up fists were raised. The cheat was trying to climb out the window.

The man who had to be Jack Rackham fired another shot in the air. The fleeing conman jumped back from the sill and looked down, chastised.

“Bartholomew Robert's articles, of which I approve, say that 'No person's to game at cards or dice for money,’” he said. “Usually those who steal would be shot,” added Rackham. He took a tiny bottle of out of the pocket of his calico knee-length coat and knocked back a generous slug.

The conman cowered in place, knees knocking together. “P-please,” he stammered. “These people have got it wrong.”

“I'm sure they haven't,” said John Rackham. “I've seen grifters in action and I have no doubt that's what you are. We have rules and codes so we don't kill each other in situations like this. Those are important rules. However, since we're not on a cruise now and you are free to join any other crew, you won't be punished.”

The grifter smiled widely.

“But you won't be welcome on any ship of mine in future.”

The smile on the grifter's face became wan, but he bowed and left the tavern with his tail between his legs. The other pirates parted to let him pass, but called him names most people would have blushed to hear.

Once the cause of the kerfuffle was gone, Rackham leant over the balustrade and said, “Hello, Elyan, my old friend. Come to share a drink? And who's the beauteous lady at your side?”

Elyan raised his hand and, still looking up towards John's perch, said, “This is my friend Elena. We've come asking for a favour, Jack.”

John Rackham twirled his moustache. “Ah, a favour. The rarest of commodities.” He gestured them up. “Come into my private quarters.”

 

****

 

“As you can see,” said Cenred, pacing the edges of a circular pool, the water of which looked as dark as molten lead, “these pools run deep.”

As he spoke, two of Cenred's officers dragged a kicking Merlin back towards one of these pools. They'd already tied his hands and were now intent on tying him to a pole.

Merlin twisted and writhed. "Let me go, let me go," he demanded, eyes changing colour for a brief moment.

For every hand he shook off, there was someone else ready to pin him down, flip him face up, and secure him to the pole. Everybody had a stake in this, for Cenred was saying, “If he escapes, all is lost. If I don't get what I want I'll get angry and, believe me, you don't want to experience my anger.”

Arthur fought his own captors off, but they drove him to his knees in the mire. They were too many to best and Arthur found himself wishing Gwaine were here.

He was fairly sure Gwaine would have helped him fight Cenred off, because despite everything Gwaine Jones had his own brand of honour, but Gwaine was off getting Ponce de Leon's chalices and Arhur could count on no one but himself.

He set his jaw when they grabbed his chin and forced him to listen to Cenred's tirade.

“Don't like this, Pendragon? Does it offend your sense of honour?” Cenred unsheathed his sword and slashed his rapier in an arc, using it as if it was an extension of his arm and he was gesturing with it.

The buffoon, Arthur thought, he couldn't do without grand gestures, obnoxious smirks, and his braggadocio attitude.

“Here is our merman,” he continued, relishing his own words. “Staked out to die.” He seemed to be saying this for Merlin's benefit, so Merlin knew what he had to look forward to if he didn't comply.

Arthur wanted a chance to speak to Merlin alone, though he didn't know how he'd have advised him. If he listened to his sense of duty, he'd have told Merlin to tell Cenred to fuck himself. But they were in Cenred's power, and such an answer could lead to Merlin's death.

Arthur swallowed. He didn't want Merlin to die; his stomach churned and heaved if he tried to picture a lifeless Merlin. Merlin wasn't meant to meet such a fate. He was.... He was brave and hopeful and could be earnest and endearing – especially when he let down his guard and was focusing less on defending the rights of his species.

He couldn't die.

Cenred, though, seemed to be using his death threats as leverage, depicting what would happen with a certain amount of muted glee. He looked feverish, his eyes ablaze, incapable of standing quite still as he talked on. “Have you noticed? You're only waist deep in water.”

As a matter of fact, Merlin was. He had a tail again, its scales as shimmery as they'd been when Arthur had first seen him. His torso, though, was out of the pool, dry, his hands bound up to a wooden post that had been erected behind him.

“This way, you'll dry out in the sun. It's only dawn now, but it's going to get hot, I assure you.”

“Bastard,” Merlin said and Cenred backhanded him, splitting his lip.

Merlin kept on looking daggers at Captain King, not lowering his head for a moment.

“Spunky now, eh?” Cenred said quite calmly. “You won't be in a while. Not when you figure out you have barely enough water to live. You'll die deliciously slowly.”

“Let him go,” Arthur yelled, nails digging into the flesh of his bound palms. He tried to fight the men holding him, but they pinned him down by the shoulders, raining a series of well-aimed blows on his neck and back.

“Won't you cry, Merlin?” said Cenred, treating Arthur's attempts at rebellion as futile. “Think about it. I'd say you've got reason to. Your people are killed for their tears. You've seen it. In the bay, their blood painted the seas red.”

Merlin set his jaw and refused to say anything to that. Cenred's words didn't need any commentary anyhow. “Can you hear their screams? As men conquer the sea, your kind dies out. One day there will be none of you left.”

Merlin's eyes had gone misty with Cenred's words but he wasn't crying a single tear. _Don't. Just don't,_ Arthur thought. _Don't._

He and Merlin shared a look and, as if Merlin knew what was going on in Arthur's mind, he said, “That's true for all of us. We all die; you're not going to cheat death. Do you really believe what Morgause tells you? She's magic, just like me, and she's lying to you!”

“I need but one of your tears,” Cenred said, low and threatening. He struck Merlin again, this time more viciously than before. Merlin's head bobbed back upon impact.

“Stop that,” said Arthur, realising even as he said those words that they'd go unheeded. Cenred knew no honour, and there were no rules restricting his behaviour, no navy regulations, no treatises, no articles of war.

Cenred grabbed Merlin by the scruff of his neck; where his fingers dug, in Merlin's skin got whiter still, a clear sign of the kind of pressure he was exerting. “I will make you cry. I swear I'll make you cry.”

He clocked Merlin another one, the sound of the slap echoing, then tilted Merlin's head back, angled it and kissed him viciously, biting on his lip as he retreated, blood welling up.

Arthur saw red, vision swimming. He sought to wrest free of his captors, head-butting one in the stomach in order to break free.

For a moment he succeeded, because he'd caught the zombie giant by surprise, his limbs free to move. But circulation hadn't had time to return to his limbs before four men were on him again, driving him into the mud, kicking him in the sides and on the head to make his reactions sluggish.

It all hurt, of course; one punch sent him reeling, for it hit the softer tissue below his ribs. His head was ringing and his jaw was on fire, but all he could think of, all he could see, was Merlin tied there, bruised and obstinate. Something both bittersweet and fierce took hold of him, something that awoke things inside him he had never quite thought existed.

His only lady had been the Navy and while he'd always been quite willing to die for her, she'd only been an abstract mistress, never touching his heartstrings, never making him fight because of her.

His father's stern words and face had made him fight; not honouring his family name had been unthinkable.

The thought of the people he was protecting drove him on, of course, but this was different. His heart now ached both gloriously and deeply. And there was nothing, nothing — not even dying — that he could do that could change things.

He grunted to hide the sob that wanted to come out.

Seeing as they weren't having their way, the pirates grew angry. Cenred had set them marching for days and they'd been told they'd almost reached their goal. Arthur saw how they were losing it at the prospect of being baffled. “Kill the creature!” one pirate cried.

Cedric said, “Chop off his fingers; he's got little use for them.”

“Maybe if he chokes him, he'll cry. I hear that when you choke, you shed tears. There was this legend....”

“Or perhaps,” said Cenred, “I shouldn't wait for high noon. Perhaps I should burn him directly.”

Arthur said, “If you do that, I swear to God, I'll take my vengeance.”

Cenred laughed deep in his throat. “You're only good for ransom purposes and apparently not even that!”

Morgause sauntered up to Cenred, treading her way along the bog path like a feral beast. “I don't think so, actually.

“What do you mean?” snarled Cenred. “He's pretty useless now. His father might be moved to pay up if we send him the lieutenant's fingers in a fine parcel. One by one. But till then....”

Morgause's lips curved upwards. “As usual, you display no intuition, Cenred.” She turned towards the man. “Can't you see what is so obvious? The merman likes Arthur Pendragon, and as for Pendragon all his threats mean one thing. He may not like it, but he's grown quite fond of our Merlin.”

“What?” barked Cenred, perplexed. “What are you talking about, witch?”

“He knows his name, is willing to fight against unfavourable odds for him,” Morgause said. “Arthur Pendragon's indignation a moment ago was genuine, and it wasn't charitable feelings that were moving him. He might kill you out of a sense of duty, dear Cenred, but the wrathful words are because you hurt him where it hurts the most.”

Cenred scratched his chin and looked from Arthur to Merlin and back, eyes narrowing, assessing them. “What if I torture your merman, lieutenant?”

“You will not,” Arthur snarled, “or I swear on my mother's fair name that you won't see the end of this alive. Fight me like a man,” Arthur taunted. “A duel to the death. It's more dignified than anything you could ever do.”

“And what would be the purpose of that?” asked Cenred. “You're already in my power. So's the merman.” He shook his head. “Your words are quite humorous, Pendragon.” The small cat-like smile that had been painted on Cenred’s lips faded to to a grim moue. “I will tear every scale from the merman's body. You can seethe to your heart's content in the meanwhile.”

“You're just a vile pirate.”

“This vile pirate is going to have fun with the fish over there.“

“The fish, as you call him, is worth a hundred of you.” And it was nothing but the truth. Merlin might belong to a murderous race, but he himself wasn't tainted like that, Arthur now knew.

Cenred flicked a glance at Morgause, eyebrow cocked. “You might have been right after all,” he told her.

“I always am,” said Morgause with no shred of humour. “That's because I'm observant. It might do you good to do as I do.”

Cenred ignored Morgause. “So you fancy him.” Cenred held his hands up in a flamboyant gesture. His tone of voice had gone down and had become vividly suggestive. “Perhaps seeing his human body has done the trick, or his plight has moved you as it was bound to move people of your calling. I dare say you've come to care for him.”

He moved back to Merlin. “I usually ignore the softer side of things — Morgause is in no way soft herself and despite her enticing promises, she's always as cold as ice. But,” he finished, leaning close to Merlin, “I'm left to wonder whether he likes you back.”

From a pale shade of red, Merlin's face had gone as white as unfurled sails on a ship's maiden voyage. Merlin's lip was trembling, and his eyes spoke both of sorrow and rage. Behind the fire in his eyes, Arthur saw a deep well of emotion he was trying to hide.

When Cenred leaned so close he was cheek to cheek, Merlin recoiled. “By God, he does! I've always known this would be a lucky expedition for me. Now, as to getting that famous tear we've all been waiting for.” He looked up from his crouch and at his audience.

Everybody was listening to him intently but for Morgause, who was paying attention, as she always did, but wasn't hanging on his every word.

“Cedric,” Cenred barked.

Cedric took a step forward and said, “Aye, sir?”

“Grab our reluctant lieutenant.”

Cedric stepped behind Arthur while Arthur's burly captors, those two hoodooed giants Arthur had come to hate with an unequalled fierceness second only to the hatred he bore Cenred, dragged him upright.

“Get us a tear, Cedric, and you may get a promotion.”

“H-how?” Cedric stammered.

“It's quite simple,” said Cenred, tapping a finger against his chin. “Slit his throat.”

Arthur heard the noise of a knife being pulled out of a leather scabbard. He felt Cedric fidget behind him and could sense how strung tight his body was. Cedric was quivering in place.

“Slit his throat?” Cedric asked as if to make sure he'd heard correctly.

“Of course!” Cenred roared. “If Pendragon dies, maybe our merman will miss him. Mourn for him. A lost love is bound to affect people — creatures — deeply. They sing of it in legends.”

Cedric applied the blade to Arthur's throat; Arthur felt the coolness of it against his heated skin and swallowed against it. The sensation stilled the breath in Arthur's lungs.

However often he'd faced danger knowing he might surrender his soul during an action, Arthur had never truly been in a position to contemplate death, had always been too busy fighting or acting to give the possibility much thought.

Now the idea of it was looming large, maybe more so because there was nothing he could do to stave it off, nothing he could do to get out of this one.

Moreover Cedric was hesitating, even though egged on by Cenred's furious eyes.

Cedric's shaking was causing the knife to move, carving a thin trail of red along Arthur's neck; he felt a trickle of blood meander down the side of it, trailing down and smearing his chest. It didn't hurt much; it was just like a prickle. He'd done worse to himself when he was an eager sixteen-year-old midshipman wanting to prove he was old enough to shave while on board a vessel fighting heaving seas. But the situation was certainly drastically different now.

He stiffened, muscles locking down while he waited for worse to come. If he fought, he would only hasten his death.

Merlin's eyes, meanwhile, had opened wide and wild. To counteract that, he'd clamped his mouth shut with defiance.

Cenred's face lit up; his eyes had a manic expression and his lips seemed to have frozen into a smug upward curve.

He seized Merlin by his hair and held a crystal clear vial to his left eye. The rim of it was being driven against Merlin's skin, making it redden.

Arthur mouthed an “I am sorry” he hoped only Merlin could decipher. He didn't know what he was sorry for; strictly speaking, it wasn't about the way he was being used against Merlin, though that grated, too.

He supposed that he now could see what it was that he would be missing out on. This thing with Merlin that had seemed so impossible but the night before was like a flare of something warm and bright that melted his insides and blinded him with its shower of colour.

“I am,” he whispered hoarsely. Though he wasn't certain what he wanted to convey or that that was a good parting shot. He only knew that he would have liked a kiss from Merlin before he died, that he would have liked to experience that above all things.

“No!” Merlin shouted, writhing, body jerking.

For a moment it looked as though the ropes securing him might yield under his fury but they were only cutting into his skin, chafing it, making him bleed. His eyes had gone molten gold, like Morgause's did, but something of an entirely different nature was now vying for Arthur's attention.

One of the hoodooed officers had just shouldered Cedric, who was botching Cenred's execution attempts, away.

The officer, much more resolute than Cedric, jerked Arthur's head back and put a fresh blade to his throat, one that was sharper and considerably longer than the one Cedric had been wielding.

Arthur choked back spit; his Adam's apple bobbed and his body went painfully rigid, all joints stiffening. Something burned in his belly.

He locked his gaze on Merlin because he wanted him to be the last thing he saw. He wanted to have the freedom and the dignity to choose what it was he would last behold.

He would meet this with decorum and without whimpering, and he would say good-bye in a way that befit his name.

And then there was a bird-quick thrust upward under his chin. All he felt was pain.

****

The men on the boat waved frantically when they saw the prow of the _Camelot_ fending the sea.

The surf was rough, the rollers high, and the little vessel was being buffeted this way and that by the tides. It was a miracle the boat was still seaworthy at all, Uther thought; it surely wasn't equipped for weathering ocean gales.

One of the men aboard it started swinging his tricorn hat back and forth in a fever of excitement; a few moments later, another member of her crew began performing the same action, but ended up throwing his cap in the air.

“Must be happy to see us,” said Morris.

“Indeed,” said Uther. “They must have been long adrift.”

He looked at the sun and found it was straight up and behind the boat. As the vessel swung closer, the men manning the boat became much more distinguishable.

Morris, armed with a telescope, squinted, and seemingly having picked out one of the boat's crew, said, “I think I know that man, sir.”

“Are you sure?” asked Uther. “How can it be possible?”

Morris paused and looked through his telescope once more. Nobody could say that Morris wasn't thorough, Uther reflected, pleased about the conscientiousness of the men under his command. “I think there can be no doubt, sir.”

“Well, can you share the news with your Admiral, Captain?”

“Of course,” said Morris. “Of course. I recognise Captain Dornington in that man leading the waving.”

“The Captain of the _Avalon_ ,” said Uther, clutching at the gloves he wasn't wearing. “Lower down a rope and pick them up. God knows I'd given Dornington up for dead. As it happens, he's lost his ship.”

The bell announcing that lunch was about to begin rang an hour later.

The wardroom was mostly silent save for the kind of bland talk typical of meals. There were requests for extra condiments or for more drink, but for the most part the officers were silent.

A large number of them had by now guessed that something was going on and that the orders they'd been expecting to receive had been turned about in the most spectacular fashion.

This voyage had been full of surprises, Uther considered, as he swished the wine in his mouth.

First, news of the _Avalon_ had reached them, then they'd saved a couple of individuals who'd turned out to belong to the species of men Navy officers loathed the most, and now, on their way to a rescue mission nobody was really informed of, they had picked up the captain of the reputedly sunk _Avalon_. It was enough to strain everyone’s nerves, especially after weeks of racing across the Caribbean.

The meal was almost over, Uther having tasted the last of his vegetables, when there was a rap on the door. Hat in hand, hair newly gathered in a decorous ponytail, Captain Dornington came in.

His uniform didn't fit him properly; he must have borrowed it from someone only roughly the same size.His original clothing, the uniform he’d had on when rescued, had been very much the worse for wear.

Captain Dornington had also shaved and put himself to rights, though any observer could have spotted the scabs on his hands and the sunburnt patches on his face and neck.

His face, overall, had the look of a burst pepper: his lips were very chapped and he must have had time for only the most limited ablutions because his hair was still salt encrusted to the point of appearing crisp.

Despite all this, Captain Dornington held himself stiffly upright. His face might have contorted in a grimace when he bowed, but he performed his duty all the same. “Sir,” he said, his voice a croak.

Leaning back in his own chair, Uther invited him to sit down.

Slowly Dornington did. His limbs must have ached from the way he pulled his chair back as though it weighed a ton.

“Captain, I'm glad you've survived, but the last account we had of you was that you were lost to us all and so was your ship. Clarifications are in order.”

Dornington grabbed a glass of water, downed it, and tried to speak. “We were making for the Coast of Colombia,” he began but his voice failed him then, becoming thin and reedy. He swallowed to cover a catch in his voice and continued only after several moments had elapsed.

“We were attacked by the _Escetia_. It had flown neutral colours up to that moment, although I must acknowledge that I made a mistake. I let them chase our wake. Placid morning, sir, it had been till then. The little waves in our wake had been reflecting the colours of dawn. I let myself be lulled into a false sense of security.”

He tangled his fingers in his napkin and lowered his eyes so his gaze was fixed on the plate in front of him.

“Indeed you did, Captain, given the results.”

All the other officers kept silent; there was a conspicuous lack of movement at the table. Even the usual lunchtime sound of crockery and cutlery was gone.

“But for his lack of seniority, my son would have made a better captain.”

Dornington said, “Lieutenant Pendragon never gave up. Not for a moment.”

Uther closed his eyes to stave off the feelings flooding him. A good officer never let himself be moved or ruled by emotion and above all, he didn't let it show. “Is the _Avalon_ sunk, then?” He smacked a hand on the table. “Are the rumours true? Is my son still alive?”

“The Avalon wasn't sunk, sir,” said Dornington, tears in his eyes. “She isn't lost. She was taken, I gather, so as to be sailed into a pirate port and turned into a pirate ship. They surely have laid hands on the prize. They must have caught wind of its existence beforehand, sir.” Dornington paused and then continued more vehemently. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

“I don't see who, Dornington.” Uther drummed his fingers on the table. “Our crew is reliable. They're English subjects.”

“I have no idea,” said Dornington, a crease marring his forehead. “I trusted my men.”

“What happened to them?” Uther asked. He picked up his fork and tinkered with it, chiming it against the smooth surface of the glass. “Only a handful were with you when you were rescued.”

“Some died in the battle,” said Leon, swallowing the next breath. “We were boarded and there were deaths. Many of them.”

“I see,” said Uther. He could feel the vein in his forehead pulse. He could feel his blood rush to his ears. He concentrated on the need to interrogate Dornington, on not altering his own outward behaviour.

It was vital he didn't. He should never appear feeble in the eyes of his officers. Most of them were dignified and hardened men who'd fought a great many battles. Uther should never show a weak side or it'd get back to the Navy offices in London. His reputation would be indelibly tarnished.

“How many did you lose? And why did we rescue seven men out of the company of a frigate?”

“A good thirty to forty men must have died during that boarding, sir,” Dornington said. “It was terrible.” Dornington wet his lips and his eyes became unfocused as he gave himself over to the memories. “Blood flew in rivers, sir. The first broadside was hell. Wood splinters were flying everywhere, masts and bowsprit exploding. The number of wounded must have been very high. You could slip because of all the blood on deck. And then the cannon went loose and crushed the men... I can still hear my men scream, sir.”

Uther nodded. He'd listened to many such a tale.

“I was overpowered then,” said Dornington in the tone of a man who'd been defeated and knew that by all rights he shouldn’t be alive. “I was faced with 'Captain' King, sir. He was laughing at me.” Dornington clenched a fist. “Jeering. Mocking me. He asked me to surrender. But I said I wouldn't. That's why he wouldn't kill me.”

“To shame you,” said Uther. He was beginning to understand how that rascal of a Cenred King ticked. “You should have provoked him.”

Dornington glanced up sharply. “I tried.”

Uther brought a hand to his mouth and coughed into it. “How did my son behave during all this?” he asked quickly.

“He acted with bravery,” Dornington said just as quickly.

In this moment he reminded Uther of his father, old Lord Dornington, a gentle, suave person who yet was a man of feeling, as the fashion went.

Uther had alternatively despised the old man for his leisurely country nobleman habits and admired some aspects of his nature.

The latter seemed to be shining forth in his son.

He wondered if Arthur had acted the way Uther would have, if he'd displayed any family traits when under fire.

“He's always been my best officer. At intervals, when I had a moment amid the uproar of battle, I could see him fighting his way to the quarterdeck with grim determination.”

“We were told by a couple of prisoners we have that Arthur is alive,” said Uther, voice level. He uncurled his hands. “Naturally they would say such a thing in the hopes I'd pay for his ransom.”

If that were so.... If they had lied.... It didn't bear to think about. Even the fact that he'd have disobeyed his orders for nothing paled in comparison.

Just like Ygraine. Looking like her. Sharing in her fate of untimely death.

“As far as I know,” said Leon, this time smiling, “Arthur is alive. He was wounded. I saw it happen. But I also saw him move when he was carried off the _Avalon_. Like the rest of my crew he's a captive, though he's probably been saved for a different fate since it is known that you could pay for his ransom. As for the _Avalon_ , it's probably harboured in Tortuga as we speak.”

“I promise you, Dornington,” said Uther, “I'll help you recover your _Avalon_.”

Dornington opened his mouth to speak, but it was plain to see that he was overwhelmed. He had to knuckle his eyes for a moment and clear his throat. “I thank you, sir.”

“In exchange,” Uther said, meeting Dornington's eyes dead on, “I'm only asking for one thing.”

Dornington blinked twice.

“In a little more than an hour we're going to come in sight of Isla Sirena. I'm ordering three ships lowered.”

“You mean to scout out the island?”

“No, that's not what I intend to do.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Dornington, “but I'm not entirely sure that I follow.”

“As I said,” Uther said, picking his glass up by the stem and rotating it. “Two men belonging to King's crew are aboard the Camelot. As prisoners. They swear Cenred is on Isla Sirena.”

“And Arthur would be with him?”

“They said as much. Before I spoke to you I only had their words and Cenred's epistolary threats to go on.”

Young Leon's eyes widened. “You want me to help rescue my lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“That's part and parcel of my duties as the _Avalon's_ captain, sir.”

And so it was that Captain Dornington was the first to leap out of the jolly boat and wade through the surf up to the glaringly white beach of Isla Sirena, hand on his pommel, hair fluttering in the wind.

Uther followed him closely. “We march inland,” he said. “Apparently Cenred is looking for the Fountain of Youth.” He laughed. “It stands to reason to think that such a place would be situated in the interior.”

“But we have no idea as to where on the island he is, sir,” a lieutenant of the Marines said, shielding his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun.

“We'll find them,” Uther began to say, extracting his sword from its precious scabbard in order to point his men forward.

What he hadn't counted on was sighting Calico Jack's notorious ship.

 

****

The boy clambered down from the crow's nest and said, “That's an English flagship, Cap'n.”

Rackham's fingers closed around the rail. “I know that ship,” he said, squinting in the distance. “It's Admiral Uther Pendragon's _Camelot_ , if I'm not mistaken. He's been hounding me for years.”

Elena clasped her fingers together as though in prayer. “That doesn't mean you're giving this up, does it? Because you've been the most brilliant pirate ever, and I'm going to scrub your deck forever, but please do help.”

She'd try to fulfil her scrubbing vow even though the last time she'd managed to trip seven people up with her mop and had ended up with her head in the pail.

“Gwaine... He's a bit of a scoundrel...well, really, he has a heart of gold beneath the pirate façade, and I want to save him. More than anything.”

“You're an impassioned young lady,” said Rackham. “You remind me of the woman I love.”

“Anne Bonny?” Elena gasped. “Everybody knows Anne.”

“Do they?” Rackham asked. “I've always wished for a different life for the both of us. Piracy is tough on us both. Somehow that didn't happen.” Jack looked over the rail and at the silhouette of the British Navy flagship, he, as a freebooter, was meant to fear.

He turned towards his second mate and said, “Heave anchor. God knows Calico Jack doesn't renege on his promises unless they were made to the English crown and general naval authorities.”

Elena smiled from ear to ear. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

Half an hour later Rackham was standing on the prow of the lifeboat, fingers curled protectively around the pommel of his sword, surf washing over his face.

Elyan was sitting right behind him, armed to the teeth, for they knew they would have to face both Cenred's men and Admiral Pendragon’s.

Since a confrontation was inevitable, Calico Jack had taken pre-emptive measures and ordered double the men he'd initially intended to take with him to take part in the expedition to Isla Sirena.

Two other boats were following the one Jack, Elena, and Elyan were on, the waves pushing them forwards towards the shore.

As the sea rose again, they found themselves hitting land. The Marines that were with Admiral Pendragon, flaming red uniforms looking like will o' wisps in the sun, pointed their muskets at Jack's men.

Jack's men had rifles, too, and pointed them at Admiral Pendragon’s officers.

“We're at an impasse, Admiral.”

“Rackham!” Uther roared. “That's preposterous.”

Jack laughed a belly laugh. “It seems it's not. You have twenty men at your side. I have as many. If you give the order to fire, I will do the same. I think you can do the simple maths, Admiral. We'll all die.”

Admiral Pendragon cast a glance at his ship anchored just offshore.

“Uh-uh,” said Rackham, following his line of sight. “You have your men, true, but so do I!”

“Have you come to join King in his miserable enterprise?” asked the Admiral, unsheathing his sword. “That would be fitting. An alliance of scoundrels. Pirates are indeed the vilest sort of men.”

Rackham raised a hand. “Wait before you do anything rash, Admiral. You might want to rush to your death and be willing to let your men follow, but I'm not keen on that, especially since it seems we have a common enemy.”

Admiral Pendragon didn't put his sword back in its inlaid scabbard, but he did tilt his head as though willing to listen. “What do you mean, scoundrel?”

“I mean to say that I'm as much against Cenred King as you are. I mean to say that I'm here to stop him from achieving his ends and save a friend who's in his power.”

“You know what he's so dead set upon doing?” asked Pendragon, putting the sword back in its scabbard this time.

Elyan took a step forwards and interfered. “Let's not beat about the bush. He's looking for the Fountain of Youth to make himself immortal. And he's got a witch with him.”

“Witchcraft,” scoffed Admiral Pendragon. He eyed Rackham's men and then his.

“Whether you believe that or no,” Elena said, taking a step forwards and smoothing down the creases on her trousers, “it's a fact that you're looking for King. That you want him arrested.”

“Just as much as I want Rackham arrested,” said Pendragon, pointing to the man standing to Elena's right.

A strange cloud passed over Jack's features then, but he kept silent.

Elena used that silence to speak further, although she was stretching her hands convulsively behind her back. Everything hinged upon her ability to convince this serious-looking person to stay his men. She wasn't sure she was good at sounding poised and reasonable.

She should have listened to her father when he was teaching her how to be ladylike and diplomatic.

Well, she'd do her best now despite her lack of those qualities, and even though her audience certainly didn't seem rapt. If anything, the Admiral's lips were curling in a deprecating sneer aimed at her trousers and knotted pirate shirt.

“I know you want Cenred,” she said. “Well, that's pretty clear. But how will you find him in time? How will you find him before he's turned himself truly immortal — no zombification — and has done the same to all his men to boot? I'm sure he would in order to get an immortal pirate army.”

“That's nonsense,” Pendragon spat.

“Well,” said Elena, taking a step forward so that she was standing but a few steps away from a musket pointed at her chest. “You can choose to believe that, but Cenred will still escape you. This island is a maze of jungle and bogs. You won't find him.”

“What would you suggest, then?”

“I know where the Fountain is.” Uther pulled a face and Elena pre-empted him by saying, “You may not believe it exists, but he does and he's looking for it. Why would he be here otherwise?”

“That's because—”

“Because he's convinced the Fountain exists. And I saw the map to the Fountain. I know where Cenred is headed.”

“And what would prevent me from shooting your companions and taking you prisoner?” Pendragon raised an eyebrow. “I could persuade you to reveal the location of this spot after I'm rid of your pirate friends.”

“I would never speak,” she said as boldly as she could. “Someone I love might die, and I need to get there. So I would never speak unless you guarantee you won't act against us.”

Rackham stepped beside her. “What if I accepted Governor Rogers' pardon and stopped being a pirate? Would that be an inducement?”

Everybody did a double take at that but Elyan, who was smiling placidly.

An officer bearing a post Captain's epaulette sidled closer to the Admiral and said, “If you will permit, sir, that would allow us to get two birds with one stone. We could apprehend King and stipulate an agreement with Rackham.”

Interlacing lines appeared across Uther's brow. “I can't accept this. I can't allow a pirate to virtually walk free on the promise he'll stop and change his ways.”

“Arthur, sir. Think of—”

“I know very well how to be both a father and an officer,” said the Admiral.

Elena swooped down, finally knowing what it was she had to say. She smiled sheepishly. “Saving someone who's dear comes first, sir.”

Moments passed. Admiral Pendragon scrubbed his hand across his brow, his perfect, starched uniform looking out of place on this beach, palms framing the near horizon. A tendon stood out on his neck, past the ruffle of his shirt; high colour signalled the Admiral's temper.

“Very well,” Pendragon said at last. “We have an agreement. You'll lead us to King. I'll allow you, Rackham, to turn yourself over to the proper Nassau authorities.”

“Parley's over then,” said Elyan. “We have an agreement.”

“That we do,” said both Rackham and Pendragon.

The man standing behind the latter smiled.

Once they'd cleared the finer points of their parley, which was done quickly, they begun plodding north along the beach and towards the line of palm trees that marked the limit between beach and tropical forest.

Elena guided the other men, walking shoulder to shoulder with Elyan, who passed her a tiny flask.

She arched an eyebrow.

“It'll brace you,” Elyan said, grinning.

“What's in it?”

“Just throw it back.”

Elena did, warmth spreading down her throat and stomach. She coughed, spluttered, wiped at her mouth and coughed again. “It almost went down the wrong way.”

“That's because you're a clumsy one. But I was sure you needed it.” He shrugged, gesturing at Pendragon, who was scowling at her.

She handed the flask back to Elyan, becoming serious and concentrating on the path ahead. It was one thing to have memorised a path and another to find one's way amid the jungle.

She could do it, she told herself, thinking of Gwaine's bold smiles, flamboyant manners, and his softer embraces. To see him again, she'd do anything, search every nook and cranny of this godforsaken island if need be. She was determined.

She stumbled into a root.

Elyan helped her up, but she heard Admiral Pendragon say, “God preserve us.”

Elena righted herself, threw back her shoulders, stole Elyan's sword, and with all the dignity she could muster after her headlong tumble said, “Forwards! Let's go save Gwaine!”

For half an hour they marched well into the thick of the jungle, splashing forward, plodding and stumbling through the undergrowth, which was more everywhere-growth than anything else.

She'd had a good idea in changing into a pair of sturdy old boots – they were Elyan's, but she did have biggish feet. She would have never have made it through in a skirt.

She'd always known there was more than one reason to mistrust skirts, especially those hideous hoop frame supported ball gowns, and she’d been right.

Right, mind on the track ahead.

“Is this the way?” asked the Captain Elena had grown to like. Pity he was Navy and not one of Gwaine's companions.

“Yes,” she said. She could recall the map perfectly because Gwaine's life depended on it. She might be a little scatterbrained sometimes, but not when the life of someone she held dear was in danger. “We have to get to the heart of the island.”

The Captain, who was saying, “I'm Leon Dornington, by the way,” chopped vines and branches to clear the path ahead of them till they all came to a point where they could see that the road had been made passable already.

“They came through here,” said the Admiral, touching a vine that had been cleaved in two. “This was done by a man-made weapon and quite recently. It hasn't had time to rot.”

“I agree,” said Rackham while Elyan nodded.

Heartened, they continued trekking ahead, Elena's pulse fluttering alarmingly.

They slogged on, climbing up out of those bogs they fumbled into, Elena more than anyone else.

Soon they had to light torches, using fallen branches to do so, because around here sunlight wouldn't filter through the thickness of the foliage.

Elena was careful about the way she moved, not wanting her torch to get extinguished. She was already clumsy enough when she had a clear path ahead of her, and she couldn't be slowed down by the fact she couldn't see where she was going.

Despite the torches, it was mostly dark here, so her other senses got heightened.

She heard the splash of boots in the brackish water, the noise made by the marching men, the harsh breathing and the gurgling sound of the ponds' waters.

They climbed high ridges of spongy ground and waded through bogs only to finally get back on more solid patches. The path was muddy everywhere, though, disintegrating into swamps again.

They marched through the mangrove jungle in single file, the Marines carrying their muskets and holding them vertically, the blades of their bayonets pointing straight up.

As they began to cut their way through thick terrain, the vegetation shifted as they passed, realigning when the men glided by.

At length they emerged into an open stretch of land. Elena came to a halt and some of the men lurched right into her.

In front of them, a clearing stretched out. Hidden by the dense foliage was a shoulder-high wall. It looked as though it was made of sheer rock and surrounded the side of an oval pool.

Way out beyond its centre, a waterfall opened up to them, spraying the boulders encircling it. The reflection of a shaft of sunlight that had sneaked past the canopy of leaves made the water glow in shades of bronze and honey.

Staring at the shifting light dance and breathing in the air, Elena said, “Beautiful.”

It looked as though no one had been here since the days the island had been young, a place untouched by men, though of course, that couldn't be true because the site had been mapped and charted.

A chill ran through Elena's belly as she watched the primal environment.

Nature was holding her breath here. Stillness reigned. This was a green haven where time stood still.

The pool itself looked like an opaque mirror, a glass surface, not even the water from the falls stirring it. The rocks around the pool were like its crowning glory.

They weren't supposed to be here, Elena decided. They shouldn't be.

“Where to now?” asked Captain Dornington.

Elena closed her eyes and called the map back to mind. “Through the waterfall,” she said.

“Cover your muskets with your jackets,” bellowed the Admiral. “They mustn't get drenched. We must retain fire power to face King and his men.”

The Marines obeyed.

Elena, Elyan and Pendragon were the first to step under the waterfall.

The passage was so swift Elena didn't get overly wet, though her torch was doused.

When she opened eyes she didn't remember closing, she found herself facing a rocky altar. Before it a shallow stream ran; its waters, Elena knew, were magic.

Standing proudly before the natural altar was an assembly of people, but among the crew of the _Escetia_ Morgana, King and a blonde woman Elena guessed to be Morgana's oft-mentioned sister stood out.

Gwaine had his back to the altar, his face stormy, his eyes riveted on the chalices Morgana and Cenred were holding.

Elena's attention was snagged by something else, though. Morgause had levelled her flintlock pistol at Cenred's head and was saying, “Now drink.”

“What happens if I do?”

Morgause's lips turned up at the corners, Morgana's knuckles white around the stem of the ornate silver chalice.

That was when Admiral Pendragon shouted, “In the name of King George I, halt where you stand!”

 

****

 

Everything was pain. It centred in his middle and burnt its way up his spine, enveloping his guts in fire and numbing him to everything else.

He hurt, the pain throbbing in dull pulsations that were echoing throughout his body, a whiplash of agony washing over him every time he breathed.

His heartbeat drummed in his ears, quick and deafening.

The pain wheeled around him, wracking his insides. It was as if he was falling in a bottomless pit with neither ups nor downs, the fall leaving his mind reeling.

He was windmilling, not knowing where or when or who he was, and but for the aches torturing him, he would have said he had no body and that the world around him had faded and him with it.

It was dark, pitch black, or so he thought till his eyes blinked open and the brightness of the sun blinded him, the world blurring and coalescing into odd shapes, the outlines of the tall trees around him rushing past him as if they were hurling themselves towards him with dizzying speed. They gave him vertigo.

Everything looked as though it was upside down; everything was hazy, the glare of the sun around the treetops like the shimmering halo around saints' head in those holy mediaeval pictures he'd seen in Mediterranean countries.

He was as thirsty as if he hadn't drunk a drop of water in days; his throat was parched and the sweet-sour taste of blood was in his mouth. Every time his ribcage rose, shots of pain flicked up his back and arms.

He groaned and attempted to roll over. If he could only push himself up, he knew things would get better. He was supposed to be strong, he knew that, even though he'd forgotten mostly everything but his current agony.

But his arms would not support him. They felt like jelly or melting butter, and he fell down again.

Only this time he was winded, the wet sound of his panting filling his ears and overshadowing the sound of the birds.

Bad idea. He choked and gagged, spitting rivulets of blood. He let himself fall back on his back.

Tentatively, he let his hand roam down his chest and when it came away smeared in blood he knew he was done for. His hands were crusted with mud but when he batted his lids to focus he saw there was a great deal of blood mixed in with it.

Right, he was wounded and had been left for dead. Though he wasn't, not yet. He'd thought...He ran the tips of his fingers along his throat and found no gouge, not even a cut, just little diagonal scratches that were already scabbing.

He ought to have been a corpse. But it hadn't happened. The memories flashed back to him.

The pirates holding him down, his knees in the mud, Merlin being threatened. My God, Merlin. Had Cenred killed him or tortured him when Arthur was out of it? He had failed to protect him. Arthur had failed him in the biggest possible way.

But perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps there was still a chance. He looked up again. The sun was high in the sky and had began its descent. It was early afternoon, then, and even though that meant Arthur had blacked out for hours, it also meant there was still a chance

Arthur was dying; he was aware of that. But he'd save Merlin if it was the last thing he did. He flipped over again and the wave of pain nearly paralysed him before it slowly spread. No matter. He gritted his teeth and crawled on. He couldn't see Merlin yet, but if he got to his feet he was sure he would.

He groaned, warmth trickling down his side as he heaved himself laboriously to his feet. He wrapped one arm round his middle, wet sounds coming out of his throat, but on he stepped till he came over a little rise.

His new position enabled him to see Merlin. He appeared unconcious, head tipped forward. He was still tied where Cenred had left him and there was no one guarding him. Better still, Cenred and his men seemed to have gone. Arthur couldn't see them and neither could he hear their raucous voices.

Merlin had been left behind and Arthur couldn't have been given a better chance to help him if it was still in his power to.

Arthur's dying heart lurched in his chest, filling him with an odd feeling of peace even in the midst of all this. His fingers curled over his ribs to tackle a wave of pain, but even then he was smiling.

“Okay,” he rasped. “Let's do this.”

He stumbled, fell to his knees, gathered himself up and fell again. He crawled for a stretch but then slumped down, telling himself he was getting his breath back, though he wasn't sure whom he was fooling.

He dug his nails into the soil at his feet, raked it up and slowly worked himself upright once more.

He wasn't sure he had the strength to totter forwards anymore but if he just tried his momentum might get him where he wanted to be.

The pool and the pole Merlin was still tied to were on lower ground; he just needed to shift and gravity would do the rest for him.

He fell once more, having to close his eyes when his side hit the ground. He gnashed his teeth and trembled from head to foot.

He rolled and writhed, working himself into a sweat, rivulets of perspiration running down his face and neck, pooling in his throat and covering his hot brow.

He was about to give up when he heard a moan. It proved beyond any doubt that Merlin was alive.

Arthur breathed in and out, focused on movement and pulled himself forwards on his elbows, trying to get his knees under him.

He only partially succeeded in this last objective but the effort got him where he wanted to be.

He was now close enough to touch Merlin, close enough to establish that he was breathing, though Merlin’s eyes were screwed shut, lines of strain carved around his mouth. The sun was burning his skin in patches.

Arthur said, “Merlin,” but got no immediate answer. He had to untie him, but he had no knife, no weapon that could do the job.

Sweat bursting from his face and his fingers, Arthur fumbled over the knot. Fingers slipping, he tried to untie the ropes around Merlin's wrist, noting that they'd dug cruelly into Merlin's skin. He yanked, creating slack before pulling one end of cord under the other.

He tugged, hands clumsy, until the bindings gave. He was able to release one of Merlin’s arms and then the other, the hemp rope falling to the ground.

Merlin was sitting slumped now, his back to the pole, his tail in the water, the rest of him out of it. His breathing was shallow and overworked and his face looked sallow, dark gouges under his eyes.

“I'm sorry, Merlin,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

Merlin's eyes fluttered open. “You're alive,” he said. He smiled tiredly. “I wasn't sure it would work. I wasn't sure.”

Arthur didn't tell Merlin that he thought he wouldn't live long. He pushed Merlin down into the pool so he could be revived by the friendly element and asked, “What? What didn't you think would work?”

“I'm of the fae,” Merlin said, colour spreading across his features when his body was submerged to shoulder level. “We have some magic. It's in the songs. But we can also use it for other things. It's the same kind of magic Morgause works, only different, because she needs spells and rituals and we need but want and wish.”

“So you wished for?”

“For you to live. For you to survive. For the blow to miss.”

“And my throat wasn't slashed open.” Arthur's breath hitched in pain, he grunted, doubled over, and tried to cover that by kissing Merlin's chafed wrist.

“Yes.” Merlin was still smiling and his eyes were dancing happily.

They shared a silent moment.

“You came for me,” Merlin said. “You didn't forget me. I thought you would. Because I'm not like you. But you came. But...When I thought my magic hadn't worked I cried. I gave that tear to him. Because it wasn't fair. I'd saved you. And it wasn't... But you're back!”

Arthur said, “Your company is much preferable to those pirates.”

The statement didn't seem to affect the potency of Merlin's smile. He splashed his tail in the pool's water, showering Arthur in cool droplets. They felt good on his fever-hot skin.

“You do like me more than you like to say,” Merlin said.

Arthur lay himself down on his side, drawing his knees up as he used to do when he was a child, sleeping in his lonely grand bed in that lonely grand house, father away at sea. He wanted to stay like this till his eyes closed for the last time.

He found that going like that wouldn't be too bad, Merlin's chatter in his ears, his presence felt, his freedom granted. He'd done what he wanted, pushed his body to achieve his goal, given back what he'd taken — Merlin’s freedom. “I swear I wanted no part in your capture,” he said, voice weakened, trailing off at the end.

“You're not well.” Fingers touched him and wrapped around his arm. A hand palmed his neck, frantic, probing, cool.

Arthur coughed, everything spinning around him. He felt strangely weightless. “He still got me,” he said. “The pirate. Got his dagger in.”

“You're....” It was funny; Merlin's voice sounded like broken glass, panicked and different from its earlier happy gabble. “You're wounded.”

“It's all right,” said Arthur. “I don't....” It wasn't true that he didn't mind. He did, and as the cold advanced upon him, he dreaded the void enveloping him more and more.

He swallowed against it, trying to keep a hold of his last thread of thought, because there were things he wanted to say and others he didn't want to say, but wanted Merlin to understand.

He began by doing his duty. “Tell my father...tell my father that I know he tried his best. I know you can find him when you have your freedom back. A flagship. It won't be difficult to find. Promise me you will tell him that. That you'll find him.”

“Arthur.”

The hand was cradling his cheek now. Merlin must have levered himself up for that. He ought to plunge back into the pool, the idiot.

He'd been nearly dying when Arthur had released him from his bonds. “Idiot,” he said, lips weakly working themselves into an upward curve. “Idiot. You're a complete moron with no survival instinct, you know.” Suspecting he’d been harsh, he added, “You talk too much but you do have your enchanting side.”

“Arthur, please, tell me you're not dying.”

“You got me,” Arthur said, ignoring Merlin's begging tone. He'd understand anyway. There were things that needed to be... hinted at.

“You got me well and good,” he said. “I didn't think this was at all possible. And it wasn't even your pretty eyes. More like the fact that you're supposed to be a lord of the sea, but you're stupid and put your idiot life on the line to save me when it only brought you grief and the threat of death. It takes a brave idiot to brave death-dealing men.”

“Arthur, I don't really need to hear this.”

A thumb was tracing Arthur's brow with all the delicacy you'd use to handle a fragile artefact. Arthur opened eyes he didn't remember closing and said, “Hello, Merlin.”

He was hit by a spasm and for a moment he lost track of everything but the lance of pain.

Merlin was crying now, teary tracks meandering down his eyes, running down the planes of his cheeks, getting trapped on his upper lip.

Arthur lifted an arm and picked up a lone tear. It shone when the sun hit it. “Magic,” he gasped.

“Oh, no!” Merlin said. “You're not doing this to me.”

“I'm not doing anything much,” Arthur said. He had meant for it to sound humorous; it was just a belaboured croak interspersed by his panting.

“Magic binds me,” Merlin said. “Magic binds me. If you don't ask me, I can't save you.”

Arthur smiled.

“Idiot,” Merlin roared. “You don't need to be heroic and tough. It's not like begging. If you ask me, and if you love me, I can save you. Those are the rules of the magic.”

Arthur touched his fingertips to Merlin's lips.

“You won't, will you, you beautiful pillock?” said Merlin. “You won't.” His eyes were puffy with the tears he'd shed. “Well, I defied my kind for you once,” he muttered, as if speaking to himself, “I can defy the nature of magic.”

And then he kissed Arthur, lips soft and searching over his. And since this was his last kiss, Arthur gave back hungrily, accepting Merlin's tongue inside his mouth, feeling the softness of it as it slid under and over his, a wet tangle that sparked life and warmth inside him.

Merlin's tongue flicked in and out and then, lips still locked with Arthur in a soft press, Arthur's bottom lip between Merlin's, Merlin grabbed his neck and pulled him downwards.

Arthur's body hit the cool water of the pool.

They both went under.

If this was like the legend said, then Arthur could find no better way to die.

 

****

Uther was baffled to find that Morgause Delahaye didn't flinch or look cowered. “Drink or I'll shoot.”

The young blonde woman that had led them here shouted, “Gwaine!” and the man so addressed said, “Hi, gorgeous. I'm afraid I'm in a pickle right now.”

It was clear that the Elena girl wanted to run out to him, but she was holding back because of what was happening.

Captain Dornington's eyes had widened. “Morgana,” he blabbed, recognising someone in the gorgeous ally Morgause had found for herself.

The scoundrel, King, was standing his ground, though his lips were drawn in a tight line and he was trembling in place. “You false witch,” King said. “You promised me immortality and instead you wanted me to be sacrificed so your sister would live eternally.”

Morgause sneered. “You're an ignorant fool, using magic for your own gains. Why would I have given you such a weapon?”

“My men won't follow you!”

“Are you sure, Cenred?” Morgause asked. “Because it was I who turned them into undying creatures. Now drink.”

Uther signalled to one of his Marines to shoot in the air. The man did, but this didn't change a thing.

Uther had never been ignored this way. “Arrest them!” he ordered.

Morgause reacted to that by incanting, but stopped when one of the Marines aimed and mowed Cenred King down. The silver chalice he'd been gripping rattled to the ground, rolling towards one of the pools scattered around the altar. It fell into the water.

“No!” Morgause shouted. “Sister,” she said, twirling round, “flee!”

Uther would have none of that and apparently neither would the young Elena, for swinging a sword, she went after Delahaye's sister.

Uther didn't care much about the latter or her aims. He unsheathed his sword and challenged Morgause Delahaye himself.

Over crossed swords, he hissed, “Where is my son?”

Morgause was strong, her blade didn't waver. “He's dead. We left him bleeding to death.”

Uther roared, stepping back to get out of the impasse. He heaved his sword up, intending to slash her down.

Morgause, however, parried his blow and danced out of reach, jumping on a boulder like an antelope.

Uther pursued her, striking down. She met his blow, steel clanging upon steel, and the instant their blades parted, Uther whirled to the side and attacked again, fury moving him.

He needed to break down this woman's guard. He would have to read his antagonist's moves and body language in order to best her. She had her youth on her side, but Uther's sacred duty was avenging his son and that constituted his advantage.

There was nothing but this, nothing but vengeance, left for him now. Not with Ygraine gone and Arthur, too.

Uther delivered most of the blows, but Morgause was adept at parrying and regrouping, and very quick in jumping and dodging. Being a woman, she lacked the impressive massive muscle mass certain sword masters possessed, but Uther learnt that she made up for it in speed, skill, and agility.

For all that he rained a hundred blows down upon her, he never grazed her.

He varied his moves, thrust with both point and blade and switched from right to left hand. When he did, she retreated, sure-footed and dexterous.

When he advanced, she answered him blow for blow, danced around him, feinted, manoeuvred.

She was skilled and grimly determined.

But not as much as he was. She had taken what she had no right to.

Uther parried a blow from Morgause, a side slash that would have gouged his side if he hadn’t been able to fend her off, and slashed back at the blasted woman. She parried with a casual flick of her wrist, and then punched and kicked him away.

Uther moved out of reach; she then jumped up backwards, crossing a ridge of stone that looked like a natural bridge. Uther followed her, wanting to engage her again.

When he did, he started hacking at her, summoning all his strength and years of experience.

She was growing tired, parrying his thrusts wearily. Her attacks were becoming weaker too; he knocked one of her thrusts aside with more ease than the preceding ones.

She still ducked and swung when it was necessary but he could see that he was getting her where he wanted.

His rage was allowing him to overcome the aches of his body.

She was giving ground now; he was pressing her close. He had cornered her. There was only one of those interlacing pools behind her, and, further away, a wall of rock that couldn't be climbed.

Seeing this, she put all her strength in one vicious lunge, but she was off balance. Uther blocked her, and she botched her succeeding riposte.

With the quickness of lightning, he slipped through her defences. When she realised what he had done, the fires of hate gleamed in Morgause's eyes.

“This is for Arthur,” he said, moving to take advantage of Morgause’s tactical error, his blade point aimed at her heaving chest.

She smiled with feline grace, eyes gleaming. It wasn't just rage that shone in them. No, they shone gold. Lips turned up, she started muttering nonsense words, her eyes pools of fire.

Uther adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, preparing to strike, but as he did a whirlwind rose.

Leaves were being raked up and spun around in a vortex, sand was thrown in his eyes, blinding him, and a wall of scalding air whipped at him.

Through slitted eyes, Uther saw Morgause pirouette, face about and dive in the pool he'd backed her against, entirely unable to stop her.

“Morgause!” he yelled. “I'll pursue you to the ends of the earth!”

When after a seeming eternity the wind died down, Uther blinked.

He saw that his men had engaged the remaining pirates and everywhere around men were fighting, shooting, duelling, blunderbuss and pistol shots ricocheting in the secret island glade.

His Marines as well as Rackham's men were battling the pirates from the _Escetia_. Rackham led them valiantly, but though they were felling many, some of those that had been wounded rose again.

Uther gaped. “Enchanted,” he murmured, not quite believing his own words.

However, a kind of lethargy had come over him, and he couldn't summon the will to do anything about the plight of his men.

His driving rage had lasted till the one person still alive responsible for what had happened to Arthur had been there to take the brunt of it. Now that she wasn't there, he just sat down, his sword across his knees, his hands in his hair, pulling and pulling.

He guessed the Marines would have been slaughtered and he with them, if the man Elena had called Gwaine hadn’t intervened.

He ran pell-mell towards the altar, lifted a machete, and struck down, destroying the ancient artefact. The earth roared, one of the rock faces circumscribing the glade nearly tumbled down, and the enchanted men started to fall under the blows of the Marines.

And they didn't rise again.

****

 

Elena had backed Morgana against a wall, and she had to admit that it had been luck more than anything. She had felt the thrill of the small victory and had felt herself avenged for what Morgana had done to her, her days of imprisonment and the lies Morgana had told her. Pursuing Morgana with a sword had been exactly what she'd needed to release her anger.

But now Morgana's eyes had changed colour and Elena, while decent at sword fighting — more than she'd been at making small talk and sipping tea, anyway — wasn't a swordswoman by any means.

“Surrender,” she said, hoping Morgana would.

Morgana didn't look as though she wanted to even though Elena had had the advantage. Well, Morgana had magic and that was more than a little inconvenient.

“Oh, never,” said Morgana. “You foiled my plans and I'll never bow down to you.”

Elena pouted, but a feeling of misgiving worked its way into her when the ground grumbled under her feet.

“That's my sister,” said Morgana, smirking. “She's found her way to freedom and so will I. If you stand between me and my sister, Elena, I will hurt you. Let me go and I won't.”

“You nearly killed Gwaine.”

“He was needed to get the chalices, but thanks to you those are lost.”

“Well, good,” Elena said. “They're better lost.”

“One fell into water,” Morgana said. “It's lost to the sea for now. But it could be retrieved.” Her eyes went from gold to red in that instant.

Which was when Elena took a step back and Gwaine appeared.

“Elena, love, let her go,” he said, sounding as though he'd sprinted to get there quickly. He very probably had, judging by the way his shirt stuck to him.

“But,” Elena objected, not taking her eyes off Morgana because that was never a good idea. “She's in my power.”

“She's been defeated in every possible way. Her ally Cenred is dead, Morgause has fled. And Morgause's zombie army is no longer a zombie army.” He tossed his hair back because it was likely blinding him. “I destroyed the altar,” he explained a little overconfidently, “so whatever ritual has been performed on them has been undone by virtue of that.”

Morgana lifted her chin up. “As long as the chalices are intact, the ritual can be re-done. Immortality and even greater magic can be achieved.”

“Morgana,” Gwaine said in his best reasonable tone, a tone that made butterflies gather in Elena's stomach. “Give up on this, will you? You saw the chalice fall into the pool. That pool is interconnected with a lot other similar ones on this island, and they in turn are linked to the wide ocean. You'll never get Ponce de Leon's chalice back. Will you really kill Elena and me for something you're never likely to get?”

Morgana's eyebrows knit together. “We can get another crew.”

“Perhaps.”

“I will,” Morgana said proudly. “And you're obstacles in my way.”

Gwaine said patiently, “Your sister is fine, somewhere. If she's really dear to you — and she did all this for you — I would go looking for her rather than threatening me and my gal here.”

“I—”

“Be wise, Morgana.”

Morgana's eyes turned their natural green again.

Elena lowered her sword as a sign of her good faith. She didn't fancy killing anyone anyway.

Morgana climbed over a boulder and said, “Very well, then. I'll spare you.”

Just as she leapt off the boulder, Gwaine shouted, “Just tell me where the _Lady Ragnell_ is!”

But he got no answer. Of course.

“I know you wanted your ship back,” Elena said, wrapping her free arm around Gwaine. “But at least you've got me.”

Gwaine dipped her and opened her mouth into a deep kiss, late afternoon sun playing on their skin, Gwaine's hands groping her buttocks in a move she would have slapped any other man for but him.

Elena's sword clattered to the ground.

****

The sand was white like flour, fine and soft underfoot, like sugar sifting between his toes. It was powdery in quality and dotted with seashells of different shades.

Arthur saw pink, orange, blue and green ones. He counted different shapes and sizes as well. There were plain ones similar to those of clams, some that looked like the horn of a goat and some that looked like striated cones.

The water lapping on the shore was turquoise blue and Arthur watched as the waves crashed onto the shore, white like spun sugar, foamy and forming bubbles. It reflected and highlighted the rays of the sun, washing up on the shoreline whilst the breakers far away smashed against the reef without reaching the bay.

The spray smelt good, like salt and ocean, and the breeze cooled him even if the sun was wrapping his skin in a cocoon of warmth.

Thick groves of coconut palm trees formed a belt around the beach; the green of the sea grape trees formed a contrast with the glaring white of the sand. Their branches swayed in the wind and sometimes a coconut dropped to the ground.

Great cordons of jungle spread far beyond but Arthur didn't mean to venture that far today, preferring to behold the calm waters of the lovely lagoon.

Arthur rested his head on his arms, closed his eyes, and pushed his toes comfortably through the sand, grains of it sticking to his back and thighs and working their way into his hair.

He whistled an old tune learnt in the Navy and basked in the sun much like a lizard. He lazed on till there was a change in the atmosphere and he sat up.

He smiled when he saw Merlin wading towards the beach, reaching the shoreline and walking towards him. He was as naked as he always was, unashamed and dripping water from head to toe.

He knelt next to Arthur and said, “Will you come swim with me?”

“You have an unfair advantage there.”

Merlin mock-frowned and kissed the tip of his nose. “Do you want me to stay here?”

“I just want you,” said Arthur, finally able to say it without any levity to it.

He gripped Merlin's shoulder and pulled him close for a kiss. Merlin's warm breath fanned over his face as he looked into Merlin's eyes in those seconds before he bridged the distance between them.

His lips closed over Merlin's in a soft press. He angled his mouth upwards and drew Merlin's upper lip into his mouth, holding it like that for long moments, till his heartbeat started beating like drums in his chest, and he sucked on it. He wrapped one hand around the nape of Merlin's neck, his other resting on his thigh, fingers splayed, while his tongue slipped inside Merlin's mouth.

His fingers moved over Merlin's quirky face, pulling Merlin's tongue into his own mouth, kissing open and wet till his lips tingled with it and shivers of pleasure ran down his spine.

He wanted to kiss Merlin like this forever, tongue on tongue, breath on breath, sink himself into him and never let go.

Cradling Merlin's head, hands to each others' cheeks as they traded lazy, deep kisses, made Arthur want to go deeper, get wilder, have this for as long as eternity lasted.

He wondered whether this was how merpeople made love, whether Merlin had known of this before, but those thoughts couldn't take hold of his brain for long. Whatever the answer, he only knew that Merlin touched him with trembling, reverent hands, that he nibbled and kissed and took him in his mouth as if he wanted it the same way Arthur did.

They groped each other.

Their tongues glided together in a hot tangle, they licked at each other, into each other's mouth, over and across the seam of their lips, till Arthur ended up nuzzling up and down Merlin's neck, rubbing his lips in slow circles over Merlin’s pulse point and along the ridge of the tendon that stood out when Merlin turned his head to the side to exhale.

He pushed Merlin down and into the sand, his kisses trailing down Merlin's neck to his bony, wide shoulders, and past his clavicles and to the centre of his chest and ribcage. He mapped Merlin's body with parted lips, looking up at him as he went.

Merlin rubbed Arthur's arms as Arthur planted hot kisses down to his belly.

Merlin's eyelids were fluttering, his fingers curling and uncurling, while his mouth was parted and he was panting; his very human-looking cock was rising up now, bobbing in mid-air before Arthur's eyes. The head was covered still, but as it stiffened, it poked out from the foreskin.

“Do you feel it like I do?” Arthur asked, peppering small kisses over Merlin's hip. “Do you, Merlin?”

“All I know is that I want you to do it again.“

Sometimes Arthur did not know how to approach such a creature as Merlin, especially when he dove under the waves or his eyes went the colour of the setting sun, but right now with him panting and his body betraying his arousal, Merlin seemed easy to understand. The call of their bodies to each other seemed both very primal and reciprocal.

Right now water droplets were still clinging to the tips of Merlin's dark hair; a flush was spreading over his cheeks and torso.

Arthur mouthed his way across to Merlin's pubes, nosed at the base and put his lips around the tip of Merlin's dick.

He nipped at the underside of the crown, flicked his tongue up and down, tasting Merlin and making him all wet with Arthur's own spit.

On his way up, Arthur sucked gently, moistening the head some, lapping some more before sliding it down his throat.

Merlin's whole body went taut, working a sweat, newly drying hair getting drenched again.

Arthur drew back to breathe, Merlin's cock standing stiffly.

Short of breath, Arthur said, “You don't know what you do to me.”

He grasped Merlin at the base and let his mouth sink over him once more.

Merlin shook his head from side to side, sand sticking to his cheek, as Arthur licked into his slit.

Merlin’s body rose with it when Arthur curled the tip of his flickering tongue up against the underside of his cock, running it up to the tip.

One vigorous suck and Merlin was gone, spilling in Arthur's mouth, and— when Arthur drew back coughing and spitting— over his belly, stomach and torso.

Arthur lapped it up, licking stripes up his chest, moving to blanket Merlin with his body, touching his tongue to Merlin’s to share the taste and make a kiss of it, his own erection poking Merlin when he shifted.

Their kissing became open-mouthed and frantic, tongues pushing and thrusting.

“I never thought I'd like a man, not a creature of the seas,” said Merlin, wonderingly. “But I do. It's just that you're....”

“Shut up, Merlin,” said Arthur, going for a smile to break the tension. He pulled his torn and dirty Navy trousers down his legs, nudged Merlin's legs wide apart with his, working his fingers between them.

Merlin lifted up a bit, cleverly agile even on land now, allowing Arthur to work his fingers into him, twisting them and jabbing in to give Merlin pleasure, but also to stretch him for Arthur.

Merlin was quite relaxed under him; his body was warm and pliant. Easing in, fat head of his cock first, became easy after a while. It was also the most amazing thing Arthur had ever experienced.

His eyes widened with the stunned surprise of it, his blood roared in his ears like one of those storms that would bludgeon this island, and his belly went liquid while his cock thrummed inside Merlin.

Merlin shivered and sighed, ran his fingertip between Arthur's eyebrows and said, “I like how wide your eyes get when we're like this.”

“It's....” Arthur strove for the words. “Human.”

The expression that came over Merlin's face was something that Arthur decided he would always remember. He bowed his head then, not wanting to give away too much. Even when they were like this, skin to skin, belly to belly, it was hard to set a lifetime of circumspection aside.

He kissed Merlin's chest as he started shifting, feeling Merlin around him, warm and hot.

Arthur's heartbeat spiked when Merlin started moving with him and against him, a natural rhythm that he'd found with Arthur and made Arthur’s chest seem a little too tight.

As he took to rocking into Merlin, he blindly sought his mouth, not quite finding it immediately till Merlin latched on, too. He forced his tongue back in Merlin’s open mouth when he thrust more vigorously, swallowing Merlin's hitched breaths, surrendering his into Merlin’s mouth.

He felt the shudder that went through Merlin when Arthur's hips found their groove, felt the tremble in the arms Merlin had wrapped around him.

When he hit his prostate, Merlin grunted.

When he pushed his tongue under Merlin’s, Merlin hooked a leg around his. Soon Arthur's hips snapped; he slammed in, held himself up, pulled out and homed in again.

When the pleasure became white hot, vision going at the edges, Arthur held his stroke, stood poised and shaking, arms barely doing their work.

“Let go. Let go. Let go,” Merlin whispered in his ear, leaning up to do so, kissing his jaw. “I want you to.”

Arthur was on the cusp of it; he buried his face in Merlin's sweat-sticky neck, drove his hips in, out. On the down stroke he came, shuddering as though the sun wasn't baking his back, filling Merlin, feeling the little throbs that came with each little spurt, till he was spent and slumped over Merlin.

They were silent as Arthur's body readjusted to normalcy.

Arthur's lips brushed Merlin's neck when he said, “I may not have said it in a way you can understand, but....”

“Shush,” said Merlin, his palms swiping across Arthur's lower back. “You wouldn't be here otherwise.”

“No,” Arthur said, slipping out of Merlin and rolling off of him. “My honour entails—”

Merlin cut him off with a laugh. “You humans are strange after all.”

Arthur leant on his elbow and looked down at Merlin. He made a face. “How dare you?”

Merlin swatted at him and Arthur flopped back, sand everywhere. He'd have to wade into the lagoon soon enough. “Seriously, Merlin.”

He got up, wiped at the sand that had worked its way on his thighs, wondering why Merlin didn't mind it, and cast a glance at the far horizon.

He'd meant to wander off to get clean, play in the surf with Merlin, who'd then swim off to come back to him a while later, but he froze there, gaze wondering across the line of the horizon.

He let his left hand fall back at his side, while he screened his eyes.

“Do you want to go back to your ships and your flags and your... things away from the sea?”

“No,” said Arthur, making a fist. “No.”

Merlin pushed himself to his feet. “Arthur.”

Arthur didn't meet his eyes, gazing east, towards England. “No,” he said again. “It never made me happy. I never was. But one day....”

“One day?”

“One day, when I'm sure he won't force me back, I want my father to know I didn't die on that island.” He grabbed Merlin by the neck, cupping his nape, fingers tangled in Merlin's hair. “I want him to know about a miracle called Merlin, and I want him to know that I found my Ygraine.”

“Your what?” asked Merlin, eyebrows shooting up, nearly meeting.

Arthur let go of Merlin, holding both hands up. “Race you to the sea,” he yelled, using the head start given by his surprise to beat Merlin to the surf.

Merlin could out swim him any day anyway.

 

The End.

 

Notes: as Uther says in chapter 1, Britain's at war in 1718. If you're wondering which war it is, it's the War of the Quadruple Alliance. The invasion of Sicily is a real historical event. As for Port Mahon, it was on Spanish -- Catalan -- soil but in British hands. It had been, at least officially, since the Treaty of Uthrecht, which put an end to the War of Spanish Succesion, had been signed in 1713.  
Captain John Rackham, or Calico Jack, really did exist. He even accepted a royal pardon, which I clumsily fit in here. Obviously he never met Admiral Pendragon or save Captain Jones. The truth is that there had been a general amnesty for pirates based on the government's desire to uproot piracy. Rackham later returned to freebooting, however, and all for love.  
He was the lover of a married woman, Anne Bonny, (I played with history here because apparently he met her after he was pardoned) and when her husband found out about their illicit affair, they both got in trouble. He and Anne escaped to sea together, but that rendered Jack's pardon void.  
Bartholomew Roberts articles can be found [here!](http://beej.us/bartart.html)

Everything else is very, very fictional.


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